Winter Field

The winter field is not the sharp young man it once was
the field of summer lost in snow: it is clouded by a lifetime of failures
another thing, a different thing. With a long white beard
“We shouted, we shook you” you tell me, but there was no evidence
only the running faucet and the ringing telephone
After they’d pierced a layer of obstinacy and fished me up, my face no longer sought the floor
after they’d reeled me back they packed me under qualifying statements and rotting floorboards
The summer field, full of vibrant life
has its many tasks; supporting its lush green empire
the winter field speaks in tongues
For those hours I was alone
and my body began to deteriorate. That
which you have long loved well past the expiration date
did not love you. I hear the sirens coming up around the bend.