There is a way to enter a field
empty-handed, your shoulder
behind you and air tightening.
The kite comes by itself,
a spirit on a fluttering string.
Back when people died for
the smallest reasons, there was
always a field to walk into.
Simple men fell to their knees
below the radiant crucifix
and held out their palms
in relief. Go into the field
and it will reward. Grace
is a string growing straight
from the hand. Is
the hatchet's shadow on the
rippling green.
-Rita Dove, 1982
No comments:
Post a Comment