Slow Field of the Sky

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Gray settles in on the sheets

from the west window and though

blue they seem gray. Wind

picking up some pace, siding

rustles—leaves crowd up into the gutters.

The snow should come. You know

that tiny church out where 615

meets 20, they've painted the doors

a dark purple and yesterday

two bunches of purple aster tacked on.

Heaped in the gravel a pile of leaves

and pruned branches for burning. The slow

evening in the stained glass—you are

held at bay by these early darks.

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If we drive further out

in Louisa county there is an old

plantation house for sale, the columns

tall as hell and skinny and the house

leans a bit. Are the fences always

newly whitewashed at the top

of a rise and behind it for miles

sown fields, caramel colored

bales of hay : a sea where it rains

big drops and surfaces scatter

and break and would you

watch this will you leave me

at new air : leaning in with the wind

the force of the sky's blue heart—

a hundred wand-like branches.

Who is made of common waters

: makes these rivers breathe.

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