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.
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."