Past the Edges (Eclogue 1)

for Jon G.

At the edges of all sound: soft

clatter of cups, saucers, a bowl

for blackberries, just picked, after

the table is cleared, by a fair girl

who bunches her white linen skirt with her 

free hand as she bends into 

the bush. There is a slight smudge of purple

on her lace hem. She cannot see it.

At the edges, sound: light

taps from a hammer in the hand 

of a farmer's son, hands that will bear

calluses, in time. He is building a ladder

in the stable, from the branches of a

willow, fallen from last rainy season.

He nicks his thumb. The wood takes in his

blood. He does not notice but he is not at work.

Edges, sound: No longer

do you need to know how far away the

edges are. When you wake

you are past the edges, still, still

among the meadow grasses, wildflowers, 

untouched but for bees, birds, wind, sun,

or the hands of a fair girl receiving

a farmer's son's gift. You can close your eyes again.

No more edges when you wake again.

Only light, for it is still,

still day. Keep your eyes 

closed. You can  tell  the passage 

of time by where the sun falls

on your face. A sun whose warmth

you can measure in the terms of a woman's body

still wet from bath water,

or still slow from sleep 

in the morning. Time, whose passage you

can feel in the direction of wind, the song it brings.

The crickets begin early. A young moon.

And beyond, the silence of knowing

there is nothing else—no more chores,

no more words. And beyond,

the silence of being at perfect rest. 

John K., 8/24/2009, 7-8PM