Field of May

Feathery tips of weeds
pepper this field of May
wheat, such greenness hurts
my eyes, rogue poppies
skirt the field as if
afraid to enter
mingle with density.

Slight wind blows my hair,
ripples the wheat, poppies bob
on their necks
calling me to watch, be still
absorb the ground under my feet
take it in
claim it as my own.

This moment in time and space
might have already been lived
through one hundred times, yet
precision of green, subtleness
of wind, urgency of poppies
calls me, tells me
the world is now, it is right.

12 May 2007