Flatten a spot in the meadow grass
Lie on your back, your knees hunched up,
There where no one can find you.
The walls made of hollow
Aging orchard grass, timothy, and smooth brome
Reed canarygrass, soft from the sun
Bearing down on it through July, August,
September. Long enough the buzz of insects
Has become the sound of hot outside.
The sky above your hiding spot
More than window or door, expanding
Past the frame of your eyes
As big as your conception of soul
Creator, illumination means the white blurry swing
From horizon to blue horizon, from a jet’s trail
A few hours past. As I was a complicated child
The simplicity of what I saw irritated me,
I couldn’t know I would retrieve it so often
So many years gone by, in an effort to find
A vision, to describe the things worth writing about:
My children, my husband, my sense of worth,
The things I bind on a daily basis, be it my passion
To a cause, a problem to creativity,
Mystification to the things I don’t get.
The bigness of what I mean is often, like the sky
For me, from a place
Beneath it. Now peace means: quiet,
A little uncomfortable, a place
Where I can’t do much: it’s too bright to read,
I haven’t brought anyone with me
There isn’t any food. It’s boring,
My eyes have grown accustomed to this gazing
At something so safe yet so expansive.
This is what I return to, for this is what I need
When there is nothing safe
Nor expansive, I can see.