Boy Remembers in the Field

What if the sun comes out

And the new furrows do not look smeared?

This is April, and the sumach candles

Have guttered long ago.

The crows in the twisted apple limbs

Are as moveless and dark.

Drops on the wires, cold cheeks,

The mist, the long snorts, silence…

The horses will steam when the sun comes;

Crows, go, shrieking.

Another bird now; sweet…

Pitiful life, useless,

Innocently creeping

On a useless planet

Again.

If any voice called, I would hear?

It has been the same before.

Soil glistens, the furrow rolls, sleet shifts, brightens.