Field, etc.
Full of flowers equals meadow
or mead. Full of grass, it’s a lawn
or mall or sward, that old-fashioned.
Hay here, corn there, cotton and soy
bean almost everywhere. When
a poet walks through, she’s the part
of the field that is not a field,
not the air, either, though she breathes
it in as an elixir, then
exhales particles of herself
into the wind, the neighboring
pasture, bearing seeds of wild deeds,
sowing her own needs like things that
need weeding. After departing,
she leaves a path that vanishes;
the field grows to know her absence.