This poem reflects on a summer hayfield as a place where light, labor, and ripeness gather into a broad quiet abundance.
By late afternoon the grasses lean,
gold and green beneath the sun,
their seeded tops in drifting light,
their rooted bodies full of wind.
The cut rows lie in quiet lines,
the field made fragrant by the day,
warm hay breathing into air,
with all the sweetness summer keeps.
No blossom draws the whole eye here,
no single fruit declares the season,
just breadth, and labor, and the hush,
of ripeness gathered close to earth.
To stand beside the open field,
is to feel abundance widened out,
the long work of light and rain,
made visible in stalk and scent.