Field

By J. Morris

August 3, 2000

A field of black-eyed Susans that you ran

through, your shirt off, brassy petals

shining, sun and sneezy scent, your face

so close to the thousand dark eyes that swayed

unblinking in your wake. Only three years old,

you gave no thought to running through, didn't wonder

what might remain. Yet it does,

the memory glows. Skin, sun, blossoms - larger,

somehow, than the tall man waiting

at the edge of the field to take you home.