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Here at the center of a field of green
leaves waving center of a grief I can’t
see far enough to tell how it will ease
it will not ease it goes on and on now
as yours does in sunlight and in rain
holding hands with her in the last minutes
sky so vast hear the wheat roar—
Copyright © 2015 by David Baker. Used with permission of the author. “Pastoral” originally appeared in T Magazine.
Weed-wrack and wild grape
hanging from the dusty trees
that touch above the narrow road.
I’m driving my way back
—then lightly rubs the
inside of her wrist
to wrist the flower
fullness the furrows
like heirloom roses
or attar crushed from
weapons thrown aside
the century gone
as though bound now in
not shame not shyness
Dear darkness. Dear where we bow our heads in disbelief.
Dear disbelief, hardly bow our heads and
hardly speak, so we sing, such words as darkness
shows us how on days on end. So I sing it is
not hopeless. Hurry hurry. Nor faithless—to stand
without faith, keeping open—. Now another
so they say, thus the trees utterly are still, and the wind is,
and what wings there are utterly still in limbs
darkened above the barn. Bow down, for this darkness
now above cedars. Smell of mint and tincture of