E ysium

Poetry 12 In the fields,

the pretty things begin to gather fame, fabulous, pointing up to the burning blue. There is love and a mystical wind

shaking up the landscape with breath like mantras.

In the fields,

frosty dew takes on the shine of polished opal. The sons and daughters of satyrs flourish

—sprawl out in the plains, catching moisture in their jovial hooves and there’s a reverie of mythical spring flutes.

In the fields,

like a fuse box exploding, each being, one by one, brilliantly, systematically pops into cognition. A zenith of music gathers strength

—an army of praise awakening to the call to arms. In the fields,

the cycle starts anew, —mower —reaper —sower —grazing —gathering —hunting a body and a blood of equilibrium, a swirl of a loving gyre

and things piece together.