The Fieldby Rhina P. Espaillat
The wind stopped breathing on the field.
At once the grass and its immense
stood still, as in an instant sealed—
sun, stones and all—in sudden permanence.
Sobered then, done with all the churning
that lifts and multiplies the light,
each stalk halted, upright,
darkly attentive, as if learning
what voice had summoned it to be contrite.
But then I heard the wind relent:
it breathed, and blew the grasses free
of what had sobered me—
not them, since what a stillness "meant"
means nothing that a field of grass can see.
If only what's obliquely thought—
our brushes with the eerie—ended
like this, clearly intended
to spice the ordinary, not
to evoke darkness dimly comprehended.