I fell into a certain rapture
with old farm machinery rusting in the brittle grass,
the brown sweep of a plow
distracted by timothy and bedstraw,
a horse-drawn harrow
like a hand cupping the ground,
their wooden parts turning soft with moss and lichen,
and the crow in the pasture spruce above me
who folded and unfolded his wings.
I had to lean against
the sun-warm bark of that tree,
for love was swelling within me like
a river threatening to jump its banks.
And the orchard grass grew around my heart,
and the earth rose up around me,
or perhaps, I slowly sank, until
I, too, was embedded
knee-deep in the hayfields
like the rusty wheels of the old manure spreader
that had lost all desire
to be anywhere
but where it was.