There is a large field near my house-
Big, empty of trees. It is not so large, really
That you can’t see its other edge from the road.
It is big enough, though, for soccer games, and
An Easter egg hunt- every year, kids churn
Up the patchy grass of that field, assisted by parents,
In clothes as brightly colored as the eggs they find.
But the field wears many faces...
In the Winter, it snowed deep, and that field,
The broken uneven ground, was covered over,
Virgin white. I invited a friend, and we went walking.
The air was so cold that it sparkled, shimmering
In the light of street lamps, and clear so that high above
There were stars, like a brighter glitter in the air.
The snow and the night hushed our voices, but
Our every word hung in the air, a wavering plume.
There was magic in the cold light of stars and moon on
An unbroken crust of snow. The blankness beckoned,
And we broke trail with our laughter, leaving sweeps and trails
Of footprints and snow angels, to the far side and back again.
We were the first, but not the last. By the next night,
Our tracks were jumbled and broken by crisscrossing feet,
Marks of human and wilder things. Despite that, we still hold
To our first glimpse of that buried field in night-touched snow
And smile secretly in the greenness of Summer.