It’s more than the increasing depth of the day
A VERY COMMON FIELD
What is it about this grassy field
that’s so familiar to me? Something
with the beings, the form of the place?
It’s not within
the brome, not within oat grass
or red clover
or yellow vetch
or the lot of them as one
motion in the wind.
or even of the morning,
or of the invisible
crickets, one near, one away,
in the damp after dawn.
A sense like nostalgia,
like a state felt but
It isn’t the center of the purple cornflower
or its rayed and fluted edges, not the slow
rise of the land or the few scattered trees
left in the fallow orchard, not the stone path,
not the grains and bristles of stems and seeds,
each oblivious in its own business,
but something impossible without these.
the increasing depth
of the day and
the blue of its height,
more than the half-body
of the lizard
turned upside down
on the path, torn
than the bells beginning their lesson in the background.
but something like a lingering,
a reluctance to abandon, a biding
so constantly present
that I can never
from the disorderly crows
passing over or
from the sun moving
as wind down through the brief fires
of moisture on the blades of timothy
It is something
that makes possible,
that occasions without causing,
I can never extricate
to name, never
name to know,
never know to imitate.
— Pattiann Rogers