The brush arbor July 17, 2008

the brush arbor light was low and golden on the field
your breath
though long absent
crept close to the ground
looking for my cheek
knowing a caress would turn me back

I stood
waiting for the right wind to blow
and lift
this hair shirt I wear from habit

to loosen me
to feel real
as fire and stone

the whisper came like this

seek a new light
set your house in order
look among the stalks
for sheaved reality

and then
the feel of your breath
spun out by the golden light
caught me
the warm blade
poised for harvest

the wind stilled
and the brush arbor grew dark