The Field Again

I feel the old snake of grief crawling again through the cornfield
but he’s tired, and I’m tired of throwing rocks at him, too

The wind blows around us both with a cold asperity
The stalks scrape
And I think that perhaps there is another way, and I might leave my fear of snakes behind

I might walk out against the chaff and let the barrenness be beauty
I might no more resist
and might no more buy my way forward,
or sneak off to pleasures
that end in being alone with only the meager comfort
that I can control my escape, if it comes to that

I have walked so many trails
trying to get myself back there, to where I dropped and lost some part of me

I have tried to find it and I have also tried to forget the field entirely
Have tried to create new endings when
suddenly, wherever I am—a forest, city, or a riverbend—becomes the field again

The clouds hang pendent over that space
And the lone oak invites me to place my hand on its bark

I might stare at it all day save I fear it would look through me
Would see me and the light of its roots undo me

God help me—it’s easier to skip rocks across the dirt like water
And make a fortress of my circled self

But I am too old for wasting time as the seasons go on endlessly
And something inside me is
Ready to lay down its stones