Saturday, December 17, 2016

Saturday Verse: "Winter Field" - Ellen Bryant Voigt

The winter field is not
the field of summer lost in snow: it is
another thing, a different thing. 
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
but there was no sound, no face, no fear, only
oblivion— why shouldn't it be so? 
After they'd pierced a vein and fished me up,
after they'd reeled me back they packed me under
blanket on top of blanket, I trembled so. 
The summer field, sun-fed, mutable,
has its many tasks; the winter field
becomes its adjective.
                                   For those hours
I was some other thing, and my body,
which you have long loved well,
did not love you.

                                                         - Ellen Bryant Voigt 

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