Where It Was


Years ago

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.


2 thoughts on “Where It Was

  1. I assume it was Rachel who wrote this beautiful, bucolic poem. How fortunate she to be able to meld head, heart and hands into one lifetime. Please keep writing, and then put them all together into one treasury of pastoral music.


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