Fields in Late October
The fields have turned their backs
to the cooling sun. They have gathered
the yellow stubble of summer and taken it
under the hills for the mice to eat.
Do not tell me how this turning happened.
I know it was the plow with its sharp claw
that ripped away the ripened skin. I know
the tractor roared each furrow into being.
Still I know the fields have turned
away from greening and from gazing
hopefully at the promise of a fickle sky.
The fields are through with growing.
It no longer matters to them what clouds
gather on the horizon, or what rain
is suspended over them like love,
something that never falls until too late.
The fields are sleeping. Do not disturb them.
Move quietly about your wintry business.
Joyce Sutphen lives on the edge of a hundred-acre marsh. Read more.
“Fields in Late October” has been previously published in Coming Back to the Body.