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Sunday, June 10, 2007

The Farmer Cut the Rye

The field I look upon
Rolls away
Like a rug
That’s being shaken out
Undulating

The ryegrass was pale green
Soft green
The color of… what?

Lichen
Crusted on an otherwise naked
Outcropping of cold
Rough granite?
No
That won’t do
Too hard

The undersides of maple leaves
Being blown
By a rising wind?
No
Too lusty
Too violent

The soft
Green blanket
My mother used to wrap me in
When she took me
Around the neighborhood
In the big blue baby buggy
When I was tiny and filled with wonder
At everything
And the world passed by so slowly
And everyone acted like I was sooo cute
And sooo special?
Maybe

But now it’s gone
And I’m staring out at brown earth and stubble
With tractor tracks
In straight
But undulating
Double lines
Rolling away