Earthprints from Before

All is fog over a field.
Amid the dewy afterbirth of yesterday,
the dry tan shoots spring in clumps
like shocks of untrimmed beard
from this dense and loamy ground:
the ground that sucks at my feet,
pulling without hand or finger—
needing me closer.

A garden of skeletons and of what was—
and what could again become—
a green and swaying meadow,
whose lush stems and porcelain wildflowers
would twist and bend in mass undulation
with the sighing currents that plied them.

They would laugh and dance here—
those yesterday-people with their colors and their dangling hair,
when the ether between us was close and intimately warm;
“acceptance” was the closed-mouth word—
the unsaid that needed no saying;
“family,” the idea that needed no imagining.

Gone now, all those bouncing bodies,
with their eyes and hips and lips that laughed.
All they’ve left are ruts—
deep and hollow gouges in the soil,
trailing from their erstwhile caravans.
They’ve picked up; rolled onward
and forgotten this place—this field
where I remain.

All is mist-obscured now—
Elsewhere owns those smiles;
elsewhere owns that springtime.
Elsewhere in some other field,
floating in their helium heads,
those caravanners have abandoned the memory
of what and who were left,
in this field
where I remain.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s