Returning to the fields
where it all started
so many years ago.
It was here I decided
which path I would take
and to never look back,
even when the sun falls
and the fields are obscured
with shadows and mist.
In the beginning we come into this space
as innocent beings fumbling around
the empty fields stretching forever.
We stare in wonder and with amazement
as to the endless possibilities
and the control we have of our life.
Then something changes and the field
begins to fill with objects and obstacles
and where there was no path, forks in the road.
How we navigate this field and
how far reaching our sphere of influence
determines the lanterns brightness when we return.
In the end, when this life becomes the next,
we become the raw materials returned to earth
only to rise and become the flowers of tomorrow.
Across the see littered
with fragments I am
but a whisper cast from
I hope with every last
shred of this being
that you are out there
waiting with patience
for my return from one
field and when I land
in the black waters I am
able to swim now free of myself.
Why do I spend each weekend
breaking sweet and back?
What does each peeled layer represent?
What am I looking for?
Across the water lapping at my feet
the land rises to the sky
and the cliffs.
I dream in color, I dream in green
I smell warm pine and feel my skin burn
as each layer dissipates and I melt
into the earth and am consumed by roots.
In the first light of day we head from the city
into the greening forest filled with bird voices.
We reached the bottom of the first hill when
we stopped in our tracks – remains of a deer.
For the 3rd time in the last three years, we have found the reamins of deer while out hiking. The frist two were in northern Minnesoata, when we came about multiple parts. This time it was within a park in our backyard. After some time spent hiking through the rest of the trees looking for anything else and listening to the ravens converging on our location, I feel this has now become part of my path – to put to rest creatures that have fallen, that we have lost with no respect and with no dignity.
Here is the poem I wrote after the second discovery and the first time we returned the bones back to earth and the sky. Back to the trees to be cradled and carried to the next world. I now believe clouds are the fallen being carried with gentle hands to where they may now rest.
We found remains
not of the day or night
not of the moon or sun
but of something more
primal and of the earth
and soil carrying its voice
from pastures to fields
to the winter beds.
The remains we found of
the open space
the land born of themselves.
Searching snow covered grounds
a rake is used like a ship
dredging a canal, but
at the surface, gentle
tugs, attention paid to
the amount of resistance,
the emitted sound when metal
hits a rock, dried wood,
or what I am looking for.
When a brownish blur
catches my eye through cattails
I know I am done.
It’s time to return
you to earth.
2x4s laid in the snow
covered dirt road, away
from low hanging pine limbs
and prairie grasses.
I place your rib cage upon
the altar, sprinkle gasoline
and say a few words
before throwing the match.
A response to the most recent writing prompt at Northography. http://www.northography.com/responses.php?stimulus_id=289
I returned to the fields
of the childhood I left behind.
Rows upon rows of corn
stretching forever and
above our heads as we
ran looking behind, ahead
all around; each stalk that moved
could mean we were tagged, and
our turn to chase each echo of laughter
and each bark of the dog.