Back East

  

I always took the grass for granted

ungroomed and growing long

from weekly rain. A  harp

of wild strains I never heard

but unconsciously felt. The soft fox tail, the raw

lace, the caravan of pebbles hidden within. Those

pink swabs of clover.

 

Your field was full of its tangled hush

and we stepped through hurriedly

trampling stems and leaves, anxious to reach

flatter terrain. We may have caught the moth, a stray note

landing on thistle or thorn -- but still

 

we neglected to listen. Now in a field

of chaparral and dust, I think of you

back home in a home. Your mind

on most days like the desert, desolate

and brusquely swept with a gust

of thoughts you cannot gather. Yet

there is that rare conversation

when words grow high into sentences

and shine green in the morning  light.

Your inflections – a harmonic blend

that strikes deeply. A day when my breath

migrates into wonder.