Sec

Burdens Of The Field

A dying tree,

solitary

among endless waves

of bending grain.

Branches

stripped bare,

roots dead,

dried up.

The hollow trunk whistles.

Fields as vast

as infinite space,

lonelier than the distance

between stars.

Windows rattle

far in the distance,

memory

chooses to

forget.

The night holds you tight

once more.

Fields bend to

unwavering wind.