It’s what I need to practice,
the lines of my life too neatly drawn
around the comfort of being here.
It’s why I’m out here again,
in the middle of the field just as
the day pauses between what is
and what was, darkness rising up
between the hemlocks and spruces
that have brought their shadows
together. I’m waiting for the moment
when the oaks and ashes
slip out of the names we gave them,
the thrushes have had their say
and the dark adds the slightest chill
to the air, a breeze announcing itself
in the wind chimes. It’s then
that the invisible hearse of darkness
waits for me to get in. It’s then
that I too often call out, here
I am, to someone who has just begun
to wonder where I have gone.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.