The Fieldstone Review


by Louise Wilford

  Lie in the itchy, late-evening grass,
  herb-dry blades brushing your naked arms,
  hair’s hands sinking fingers into the cool earth.

  See, through the half-closed edges of your eyes,
  the brown-tipped flowers, pale wasps in the corn-dry grass.
  Floating patiently among the ragged dandelion,

  the sluggish cowled nods of daisies, greasy buttercup smiles -
  tasting the hot air, adrift. Let your thoughts
  lift and fall on the grassy sea, following the bee’s

  bobbing wander, shadowing the aimless ramble
  of distant clouds. Let your thoughts swim
  and dissolve in the wild red evening sun,

  coasting, rootless, on a sea of clover.