harvest pantuom

She waits, patient in the field,

where memory bruises the soil.

Each dawn she listens for her name

in the hush between plough-beats.

Where memory bruises the soil,

the wind moves gently through the grain.

Each dawn she listens for her name,

a sound the silence nearly forms.

The wind moves gently through the grain,

though nothing new begins to grow.

A sound the silence nearly forms

fades into the stillness she keeps.

Though nothing new begins to grow,

she hums the songs they used to sing,

fades into the stillness she keeps,

a warmth that barely touches frost.

She hums the songs they used to sing.

She does not call the girl's name.

A warmth that barely touches frost

folds inward like a closing hand.

She does not call the girl's name,

the oxen do not return her stare.

A season with no mouth for supplication

folds inward like a closing hand.

The oxen do not return her stare.

She marked each morning's passing cold,

folding inward like a closing hand,

the world begins to freeze away.

She marks each day's passing cold

and walks the rows by torchlight.

The world begins to freeze away;

flickers in the path she knows by heart.

She walks the rows by torchlight

its glow too dim to break the dark,

flickers in the path she knows by heart --

old rituals for a child gone under.

Its glow too dim to break the dark,

but still she shields it with a hand.

Old rituals for a child gone under --

she waits, patient in the field.