The Fields Grow Full with So Much Longing
Notty Bumbo, 2019
How it is the morning waits
Just outside the farmhouse door,
Holds nothing in abeyance;
Golden light suffused with birdsong,
The low sound of the cows
Lining up for their daily work.
Later the cicadas will thrum,
The roosters will sing on endless repeat.
Lenny will fire up the combine,
Head for the west fields, whistling.
This is where time plays its reed flute,
Young wheat clashes with the wind,
This is how the child finds a dead rabbit,
Wonders who its children were,
Endless questions with unsatisfactory answers.
Some days the stars seem to follow
Well into the afternoon,
A light that barely remembers its origin.
How we loved those days,
Corn promised for supper,
Mabel singing silly tunes
As she hangs the laundry in the drifting sun..
We want for nothing in this life except love,
Offered off-hand and honestly.
Even after the front door closes on the night,
We never stop dreaming of wonder.