The Field Behind the Dying Father’s House

I’m the thin yellow
that escapes the dry grass,
the left-over dream
haunting the afternoon.
I’m the stillness of goldenrod
in the ordinary day
before the storm cloud breaks
and the wide trees embrace
their shadows. I possess no gift
of perspective that will deceive your eye.
I am simple and flat, a reflection
of sun forgotten on the ground.
Hovering between the earth and sky,
I belong to neither: no green
can swallow me, no blue
can overwhelm my singular purpose.
I hold this fragile landscape together
until night falls and turns everything—
the luminous barn, the brooding
house—into a quiet symphony of black.
I know its slow melody by heart.