If.

Chagall, The Walk, 1917

What Is the Field?

The field is filled   

with what we see

without sleep.

Never completely   

closed, it quickly erodes   

when tilled before rain.   

If clogged with boulders

it won’t be razed

and once burdened

cannot quicken

under flocks.

The field reveals

glint and holds

leaning, pulls

twist from taut

knots of buds.

We watch the field   

for stirring, wait   

for stems to spring   

back from sparrows.

We hope for a swell   

in its middle so   

we can say we saw   

the sway that comes

from noticing.   

Water meanders

to prairie potholes,   

throws cordgrass

into switchbacks

as we push past   

bramble and scare   

a whistling wheel

of geese into air.

The field draws

hawks and sides

of trains, cradles

pools from storms

where ducks plumb

for water snails.   

We trample light   

between us,

no way to lope

in parting the swales.

We must flatten   

to fill the space

with all the rolling

wrapped up in us.   

Before home,   

the gabled barn   

across the road

throws the brightest

rise we’ve ever seen

the field try on.   

The field is not

in rows, is not   

a faded saw-songed

croon. It pushes green

a mist above mud,

shows how we make do.

We wonder

what we’re not   

in the field.

What scours, cuts,

or knocks.

If we could stay

and still feel full

the low line rounding   

out a spread

of subtle slope.

Leila Wilson