Fields

Sometimes I wonder if I am more field than forest

Or if the root of the trees have found good soil in me.

Laths and plaster hug me tightly, leaving room only for glass

And I sit amongst this cradle, watching the treetops breathe,

Wondering if I am a creature of the fog or the field below.

.

This is no twiddling thumb issue.

It is a catastrophe of identity.

Where does my soul belong?

Do I rest in soil with the grubs?

Or in the foliage with the birds?

.

Am I at home in a forest, nestled between her bones?

Or is it the damp earth underfoot, the humid air lifting like wings

Off the corn and wheat and soy that makes me fall to my knees?

Do I dream of becoming the rotting bones of her understory?

Or is there something untenable about the love of the gloom?

.

I need to know where I'll fall.

A shooting star can't make a dent

If it burns up on entry and I...

I can't find a home until I know

Where my bones want to sleep.

.

There is a home in the middle of a forest but it is not mine.

I sleep in the fields and run to them when my heart aches.

How many nights have I revved the engine to touch the sky

Only to happily land in the middle of nowhere with only corn

To hold my hand and guide me home, guide me to the center

Of the Milky Way spread above like some ancient tapestry?

.

It is her then, the field.

I have never run into a forest

When the moon is full.

And I will never sleep well

Without the grasses cradling me.