Pond in a field

In a field, by a pine, in a Spring air
A farmer dug a hole in the black earth;
And the rains in the loom appeared,
Filled the hollow, filled its thirst, extinct
Went the barren trench quick as a weather.

And the young ages surely swam while an
Orange sun was sacrosanct to a summer,
And the corn and the wheat kept their shapes
Intact till a crop in a fall; and the skipping
Stones disturbed a calm water and a wind

Throughout the warmth. And the winter came,
Leaning its cold on the plowed fields and
The crowskin flight, the stuffed scarecrow with
Lifeless eyes till a seed and a stalk; sunlight
Worn as coats by clouds and shadows.

And a skate and a meeting of blade and ice
At the freezing hour, frost on a pond; short days
Lobed into a season. Quick as it ends,
Leaves quietly over the dry still grass. On a
Warm light’s tint, new whispers in a wet hole.

Copyright © 11/14/17 lance sheridan®