In the Wheat ~ Songs in Your Presence
Our hours passed on schedules
of unchanging ritual
attuning us to rhythms distant and regular
like the tides or the sun vaulting high
over our scorched windowsills.
After all these years the thought arises
You might recall those hidden
winces of homesickness when,
after train rides across the night
our ways wound back to a crib
where we would kneel staring
at a blurred plaster figure on straw
under half-naked pines.
How it hurt on rainy days
to kneel alone and happen to see
an empty tackmark on the wall
where a Christmas wreath had hung.
And all during those years
minutes were being measured
by the onlooking clock
in low swinging arcs
there on that wall
where all our corridors met.