No Fallow

If fruitful labor has but one sad fate,
'tis that my mind cannot in fallow lie.
My wearied hands do not procrastinate,
I promise you, but as I sit and try
To summon up the simplest of a noun,
I'm flummoxed, flustered, full of bluster.
Fertility demands that life lay down
And give until there's none to muster:
O! what a cruel device, this sacrifice!