Fields

Walking on
Past growing hay.
Renewed upon
Spring’s first day.

Horizon open,
Calling out.
Green leaves quaking
All about.

No direction
In particular.
Palms wide open,
Perpendicular

To footsteps in
The bending ground.
Any way,
A whistling sound.

Breezy meadow,
Waving flowers.
Found not lost
For endless hours.

Gaze around.
Eyes may focus
To sky or ground,
Bluebell, crocus.

All at once,
I drop to lay
With spine stretched out
In fields to pray.


4/12/21