Jack Growden - Harvest

My "widow", you saw something strange at dawn:
Fresh fields of legumes sprung from struggling lawn
And each and every withering crop
Was suddenly lush from soil to top.
Their paddocks turned neat as if just plowed
Then replenished by a corpulent cloud.
You are dazed. The answer is hard to find.
But though your eyes are grieving they are not blind -
Open them both; see that rain?
I did not perish; I was not slain.
Wipe your tears; be not bereft,
I am not gone; I never left.
I own these fields; so these fields thrive
For I did not fall;
I am still alive.

Jack Growden

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harvest-36/