Come and See
The field does not announce itself.
It simply opens,
lupine-blue
and trembling,
a sentence the wind
keeps starting
but never finishes.
Come and see
how the morning lies
its cold hand on the grass
and the grass accepts it,
the way a door accepts
a key that no longer belongs
to the house.
Come and see
the wolf-hour,
that grey seam
between dark and dawn
where the stars dissolve
and the light arrives like a rumor,
uncertain of its own welcome.
I have stood at the edge and watched
the purple spires lean east,
not in prayer, exactly,
but in the old,
animal way of knowing
which direction holds the heat.
The roots go down
like a question
no one thought
to ask aloud.
The blooms go up
like an answer given before
the question was ready.
Come and see
how a thing can be
both reckless
and precise,
how the lupine spreads
across the slope
claiming nothing,
owning everything it touches.
Come and see
before the season turns,
before the petals drop
their small flags
and surrender
what they never meant
to hold.
The field is here.
The light is doing
what light does.
And there is still,
just barely,
time.
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