-This poem reflects on wind moving through dry late summer grass, where the fading field becomes a quiet image of release, transition, and making room for what comes next.
Across the field the wind moves low,
through grasses faded into gold,
their summer green now worn and pale,
their seeded heads made light with age.
They bend together, rise together,
a thousand stems with one soft voice,
the sound less song than whispered time,
passing gently through the land.
No storm has sent this moving air,
no hard rain follows where it goes,
just something cooler from beyond,
touching what the sun has dried.
So much of late summer lives here,
not ending, only loosening,
the field releasing what it was,
and making room for what comes next.