I stand in the open field
where the spring wind had dried the mud into dirt
and the greeen slips of alfalfa bend with the wind.
My eyes are closed,
I feel, rather than see, the cloud shadows scud over me.
Cool, then warm, then cool again.
Tell me, distant friend,
do you ever stand such?
Rooted, blind, waiting?
Do you listen for the north wind to say, “Here, here”
And do the windbreak trees answer “There, there”?