Don Thompson wrote this poem.

Fallow
By Don Thompson

This field, fallow for years,
has lost its memory.
Though rife with dead weeds
like unkempt hair,
no new seed will germinate in it,
as if soil could suffer dementia.
A few phantom cornstalks remain
from a season so long ago
no one remembers
if the crop turned a profit.
Maybe it was plowed under.
Their leaves click like false teeth,
after all the words have withered away,
biting down on nothing.