On the Farm
I need evidence that I have not changed, something
sound within me, a voice that answers the wind when it
blows here on the hill. The stars respond to the darkness
twinkle by twinkle, and I realize I am waking to a porch light
in the distance. Cars pass beyond the house. The susurrus
of their motion makes for peaceful thinking. When I walk
to the edge of the pasture a bellowing bull intrudes on my sadness.
Is this sadness? I forget what brings me here, what illumination
at the end of August, hot and feverish, blasts me baked
and muscular. Somewhere far away waves crash ashore,
constantly changing, but the process by which they break
remains the same. A girl is strolling by the sea, and by
the chambers of the sea she sees the end of all things.
By fire light her eyes narrow to a speck on the horizon,
a ship slipping away hauling fish to a spot barely
charted on the globe. She hears her name and is reminded
of all the places she has never been, of the land she cannot
cross. I am her tonight, in this farm that holds me captive,
word and deed, jot and tittle, a way out and a way
of knowing there is no escape.
Joel Fry
No comments:
Post a Comment