Living Here

In the absence of ocean, I have the field,

and I walk there with the dogs

on a chain. One who won't shut up,

the other large and grave

with his patient look-we all survey

gray sky, gray woods, absence

turning the season. The field

is married to silence, a cloud

lying across it, and when it lifts

no horizon takes my eye. No glory of night

falling at sea, light's limitless plane.

In the field, containment

is everything, locked as it is

by evergreen shade. The scrimshaw of ice

is water's only possibility, handiwork

the cold creek made in its secret

turning. Why not accept the bounds,

love the confined self?

In the world of appearances, teach me

to believe in the unseen.

The ground darkens to a threat.

I watch where I put my foot-no sound

in this universe but that reassuring thud.