The field is swaying in wet flames
and a wicker chair is sitting out there in them,
waiting for my glorious return
and these chickadees, finches, jays and warblers,
squeaking and rasping and calling out
so matter-of-factly beautifully in the branches
are poised to take me in again,
are talking amongst themselves but when I walk
again into their cloisters will sing out
with all the echoing depth of the converted.
The very thought of that homecoming has put springs
in the prancing cat who saunters down the road
distracting himself, for now, with a search for the critters
tunneling last fall’s leaves in the drain ditches,
taking his time in that purity of movement
of those who are just filling time. What better way
to wait than in this huge blue morning
which has thrown its doors so wide they’ve come clean off
the hinges and may never close right again?