Fieldwork

Now that I have watched the pines
deepen from green to grey,
tell me what is more endless
than the earth moving
in the wrong direction. A woman
next door wakes to drink milk
and talk to her dead husband
about trimming the rose hips
rising wild to ravage the sun.
Can god still hear the flowers
breathing? Inside my dad’s breast
-pocket is a letter written
in the color of my favorite pills,
waiting to be sent to a land where
the light changes years before
ours. A shadow cries out sharply.
The wind outside tries to tear
out the world, as red petals drip
open the sky. How does it happen
that a self can walk into a ceaseless
place and break apart while still
waiting for clarity to come?
A river is moving into a far distance.
Stand in the field with your eyes
open. Let emptiness happen.