afieldnotebook

The Plain

A muddy-wheeled cart goes lurching
between the poplar trees' wide rows
just where the narrow track
cuts from the main road.

Crops, naked fields, horizon
and sky surround a single horse
and driver in a wide frame,
hiding them in fixity that never alters.

The distant here seems very near
and what's near seems far away:
all sing together as one--
everywhere furrows, lumps of clay--

horse, driver and small cart
rolling the work hours way
through slow centuries,
and buried by the nights and days.

-Sandor Weores, 1988