poem to erin

she loves to smell an open field

fresh cut and full of flying fires

if stars too high she'll let them be

too far are they to take their heat

if fireflies then in a jar they'll be

the mayflies have had their day

she huddles in a furrowed nook

cleared of weeds and treaded down

by the farmer's cart or tractor turn

she listens to the summer sounds

from moon lit trees that surround

as anxious as a child with clowns

not knowing if to laugh or turn

reaching for the empty open hand

that closes covering quiet wounds

forgiveness, mercy, and solitude

she sights a tree far off on a hill

the last one left from years of till

it cuts the horizon to make a pair

a place for the herd to feel safe to share

while a storming summer thunder stirs

she wonders what's covered in the branches

clowns she wonders wearing happy faces

with sleight of hand perchance to catch one

will her firefly lantern perform some magic?

fashion nature to fit her imagination

to cage it, keep it, and take it home

a souvenir to fancy when she's alone

or used when the visiting muse

imposes her to pen a poem

o'er the crispy cuts of maiden grass

the dungarees she wears hold fast

they protect her pearlish slender legs

from nipping critters that scratch and slither

in a long sleeve sweater she braves the summer

she undrapes it first as the night gets warmer

the moon plays shy, her lone witness

as the firefly light bathes her eyes

like a candle grants shadow its due respect

what apparitions the harvest field begets

across the mowing wildness hidden

a cry is heard in the distance

the dead pay their fare to the living

she counts each firefly she sets free

feels the danger of the night's clarity

they return her favor as winking stars

suddenly all her clowns have smiles

they've wrested the bars for her escape

content the knot in soft embrace

bypasses the hand to darker spaces

she's spins firefly free across the landscape,

lifts her arms, sways in the current

the danger hidden in joy circumvented

circles and returns as if 'round a maypole

one last dance for one last maiden's race

a ritual performed never out of season

the holiest dance for the subtlest of motions

shadows move across the horizon

giants test the soft earth's forgiveness

a caravan of eastern white tail deer

one pauses to lift his horns to stare

they've caught her scent; off they go

to the raspberry thicket in the meadow below

the birds are singing an untuned orchestral

a prelude for lovers to build nests and rescue

their share of the seed dropped and spread

by the tines of the tiller 'cross timothy and fescue

she rests her head on a bent grass mound

her sweater and arm her pillow down

her lovers were never so provisional

to forage by night and light love's fever

she takes a deep breath; removes her sweater

she feels a chill that she regrets to remember

she wants to stay the night in the field

feel the wetness rise across the pasture

recant lost dreams that launched her tears

until the sun quiets the needeep chorus,

the doves coo their partners, and the crickets leap

deep beneath the fallow field of hay to sleep

the honesty of open space takes her breath

oneness compliments the grand expanse

she feels its width and length caress her face

a surprising gust of morning breeze

she owns her day by waking early

released by the canopy of hedgerow trees

drifts across the half lit greening plain

to the cart road that traverses the field

swirls, disappears, and echoes her name

erin...as if calling her to a holy requiem

one more time she bows her head

writes the scripture yet unread

the lilies spin a cape above her head

protects her from fear and dread

tonight there is no circus tent

her clowns are sleeping in their beds

a warm blush rinses her neck and face

blessed to own her time in open space

she'll keep the promise to heal the wound

and free herself from phobic clowns

her hand crowns the concaving moon

full-bellied down on the arriving dawn

it moistens the honeysuckle bloom

its pistil head holds a sugar drop

clouds rush to sup the dew point out

purple flesh swims in shallow touch

the only movement left to watch

are the spare ticks of gravity's unending clock

the shadow of her pulsing body collapses

ruins amidst the grassy architecture

ankle, to knee, to loin, to waist

an answered prayer from a hallowed place

barefoot she steps from her sanctuary

matched only by the open field her beauty

a golden sunrise for a newfound journey