Beginnings

 

Through Many Fields

By Emily Wickerham

 

(Please do not copy, steal or plagiarize)

 

Through many fields I wander,

Down many paths I tread.

 

The Caretaker of the fields,

I meet him in the hollows.

 

Under bent oaks we sit,

Upon cushioned moss we listen.

 

Undulating shadows downward cast;

Fleeting ghosts in the negative.

 

Silence wrought from shivering whispers;

Grasses part to lead beyond.

 

Solemnly, lovingly, beckoned;

'Tis not the last field for me

 

Here I meet myself coming,

Here I meet myself going,

Here there is freedom for me.

 

In the next field over waiting;

I must pass through thorny hedges.

 

It needs be sharp, rending flesh,

To tear aside the mask.

 

Drenched with blood, tears,

In a puddle fallen.

 

Demons rebuked, lament;

Denied claws sheath.

 

Raw skin now meets sunlight.

Unused, concealed, long-guarded;

Nearly lost in the grooves of time.

 

Cast against an old tree I slump;

Moaning, thirsty, broken.

 

My new skin the Caretaker nurses;

Gently knitting, mercifully mending.

 

Cool breezes sweet,

Soothe my fevered face.

 

"This field is so nice" I murmur,

Lolling against his side.

 

In silent agreement the Caretaker,

Offers a steadying arm.

 

On my feet - hands to my face,

I feel no concealment,

No scars, no bleeding wounds.

 

Astonishment growing;

Childlike wonderment blossoms.

 

The Caretaker broadens a smile,

My soul leaps within.

 

Ancient hands cup my chin,

Grasp of eternal caressing finite.

 

"This field is nice, indeed, my child."

A pause draws me into his gaze,

"But you should see the one up ahead."

 

Amen.