… she burns,
the way the field burns, the way
he burns the field at the end of summer
before the cold, before the mares-tail clouds,
the bare trees of late November …
… the field lies naked.
She is naked as the field, burned to hard earth …
… she can barely remember spring
with its blue bonnets, coreopsis, indian paintbrush;
she lay down in a meadow of wildflowers, set her name
adrift on an undulating sea of wildflowers …
… she cuts her hair with pinking shears,
short as a nun’s,
tufted and unadorned,
to better feel
the sun, the rain, the wind,
clothes herself
in shifting blues …
