I would stand
quiet in the field behind
my grandparents' house
not just looking at the woods
and fields that surrounded me.
Time was
irrelevant
in that
place.
Impressions embedded
gently into subconsciousness
nestling like children under
thick warm blankets.
Cold wind whirred in my ears
pulling a long strand
of hair across closed lips.
Smells of woodsmoke
and frozen prairie grass
mingled with the more
pungent tang of bovine
excrement from the dairy.
Naked and ageless
trees pointed their twiggy
fingers up
to a mass of gray
overhanging clouds.
Those things
the cold and the wind
the smells and the colorless trees
visit me now in these gray January days.
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