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February 2007 I wrote this trying to capture the mood of a moment during one of my family's annual trips to Poland (to see other family). We had pulled over on the side of a narrow road because there was this incredible little patch of wildflowers growing beside a wheat field. I still have the dried flowers somewhere. |
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You stop so very suddenly and you know exactly why the field that is your purpose is an echo of the sky. Beside a narrow two-lane road and dirt, was heaven hid wheat interspersed with wildflowers thriving as we did. They stood in throngs, swallowing the summer noontide sun into their hearts as black as ours though red they were, each one. While those of blue, they ate the sky low they were among the wheat gluttonous, with stretching necks our black shoes crushed them ‘neath our feet. Those paler blue starved quietly thin and humble still we noticed them, an afterthought softer though: in dream a drill. Blots of yellow there were too as common as the clouds they partook of mist and wind and fog, in saffron crowds. In a tiny roadside Eden we pondered on those flowers, those devourers of sky and sun and one of each we chose. But now the red has faded and no blue or yellow dwells in dried flowers trapped in pages – we ate the sun and sky ourselves. |