Even mown, the field shines gold,
grasses fanning up in a whorl—
reverse sunrays—pointing
to the overcast sky,
a halo hammered thin.
The field, the players,
the flattened baseline,
the ball sailing
to the wild edge of things—
all around you the world
makes itself right. The rose
continues its conversation
with the railing
you’ve lashed it to;
the black walnut spills
its fruit, a perfect gift
inside a bitter hull.
Even bruised,
your marriage plows on.
Why are you astonished
at the landmarks
you’ve been given:
the mulberry at the corner,
the dog’s head upon your thigh,
the sparrows below the feeder
scratching for something more?
