Bearing Field

                   —Mid-spring, Central Nebraska—

Here, flown-over spring is empty 
           field of just-tilled earthskin, light brown 
last year’s leftover stalks, cobs, leaves, 

the sacrificial oat and rye, 
           all chewed up and mixed in like gold 
flecks dulled down to a yellow mist 

to a faint whisper that covers, carries 
           light across the miles of open space 
flat and straight to the horizon. 

Flat and straight forever seems. Husk 
           of future faded, dusty now but 
its almost-smell of coming green, 

its almost-green when you bury 
           a seed inside it. How else could 
generations bear to repeat 

the heaving work of covering 
           this whole skin, footfall to earth’s edge, 
in the pale, lessening smallness 

of these buds? Almost-feel of almost. 
           Is that what drives little mouths to 
their loves? —Almost-curl of almost-worm 

in the beak, hovering, almost-
           crack of acorn, seed in the mouth, 
rooting, almost-surge of sweet on 

any tongue edging body appleward 
           or body edging tongue straight to 
tongue? —I always felt sad, learning how 

the pioneers saw this land, their God 
           in every inch of it, bringing down 
His will in every way the soil yielded 

to their hands, or didn’t, droughted, 
           their carriages buoyed or stranded 
as broken boats on the choppy waves 

of His plains—all a judgment, a landscape 
           meaning something else, all 
matter for the sake of reaching soul. 

Is it the same? The twoness seen 
           in the most-loved face? Yours. Field 
in spring, all dullness tilled up, opened up 

at me, hovering-eyed, edging-eyed 
           slight mound of under eye’s under-
bone over cheeks hollowed rows over 

which your eyes are always mid-blink, dust 
           of brown mid-spring, not yet but coming 
green, bearing: almost-feel of almost.

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