Harvest Of Futile Fertility

The lady surveyed her garden sadly
and a bit too longingly dismayed,
Softly grown long from inactivity
now too seldom the grass was layed
by the excited visitor or laborer who often came.

At one time the path was worn
to her wet and fertile beds
She kept a village wondering of
the succulence exhausted workers all had said
was the reward of harvest when work was done.

She was tilled and tossed many times per year.
Hired hands lined up for the chance to work her.
Too were the times she was left only with a tear
as a remembrance of their time together,
leaving her garden stripped bare of all her fervor.

Through the years of harvest seasons
She turned a chore into a pleasant trick, so well
there were many who knew her pleasured plowing.
But crop rotation is best reserved for younger
fields which yield and are naiively more allowing.

She looks back into her pantry at the empty space unused
  and smiles to herself a secret.
The feast of his lifetime from her years of harvest,
unkown to the wayward stranger who is soon to be served

When they both are full and on his request,
the stranger doesn't leave,
the new need to plan for each day's desserts
is her harvest well deserved.