"Mary At Dusk (For Mary R.) "
In the surrounding field, the shadows begin
assembly, the grass a rich poisonous
green, at its edges sand and prickly weed.
Harvest nears and this place will be stripped
nearly clean. Even bramble bends under
the constant rhythm of the scythe.
A young woman sits in the naked pasture
and slings her child into the warm
reaches of her coat. Unknown children
romp in the loose grains of gravel
and weed, their hair pieces of swirl and bob.
She holds out her hand to me: Come,
linger beside me. We were once children
trapped together during those humid days
where everything stretched, throbbed and sighed.
Look how the willow bark wears away.
What remains is dead skin, white and soiled.
In the end, there was little here to keep us.
No wonder our young faces seemed bloodless,
pumped dry by beating hearts rooted to a bleak
river as the fields turn a forever brown.
© 2005 LeRoy Norman Sorenson
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