Back by trees that stand into sky, green against blue or grey to steel snow, she watches yellow grain move to and fro, audience to a calm horizon and her heart. She hears wisps of boots brushing stalks until both are silent, resting just behind. They sway with the field. “You ready?” She holds the grove, the shade, the cross, grave, then heads to the house, husband close behind until she reaches back her hand to find his waiting and they wander their way home.
More of the same? See Honor and Other Virtues here.
My style after a bit of poetry? A story. Find them here.
G Beckman 