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."