The Field at Rest

James Michael Robbins

1.

In early morning,
fog still sleeping,
large bales of hay
round dreams
soft at the edges,
the creekline a suggestion
at the end of sight.

A woman
has risen from the earth
and stands there
relaxed, facing east,
curves beside a round bale
except for the shadow
between her legs.
The grass has cried
during the night
and is cool
at her feet.
She is waiting.

2.

At midday,
the sun cruel
overhead,
air heavy
with heat
and lack of destination,
the creek
a distant promise.

The round bales
sit on their shadows.
The grass has premonitions
of its own death.

The woman is gone,
but a blanket on the ground
retains a memory
in subtle folds
and small circles of sweat.

3.

When evening is
almost over,
before stars and planets
descend into visibility
and the myriad dances
of night,
the round bales
the only incongruity,
shadow creeping in from the creekline
slowly devouring
what day and the woman
have deserted.

4.

From the distance of memory
it is a field
of promise
and desire
always at rest,

of longing
to return,
to lie where the woman lay
and feel the ground there
still warm
before it opens
and takes me in,
the round bales
replaced by stones.

poem notes