The winter field is not full
the field of summer lost in snow: it is strangled in a coat of white
another thing, a different thing. a month early, nine years too late.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
but there was no sound
only bright, confused eyes.
After they'd pierced a lake and fished me up, I laughed
after they'd reeled me back they packed me under snow and ice, I was the last blade of grass
The summer field, a trampoline and garden
has its many tasks; weeding and walking and cleaning out
the winter field has melted in the sun
For those hours I was young
and my body cold
which you have loved long well
time did not love you. It has left you behind.
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