When I fly away,
shimmering waves of seed, golden under
the dimming light of this August evening and
the soft breeze ripples
the sea of corn, spread wide
over the body of land,

the rocking chair sighs unchanging motion,
back and forth, back and forth,
as the abyssal field stretches. I am cast
into the waves;
I float on to this serene place and

from the porch, I breathe in the emerging dew,
the quiet dampness of summer
the dirt on the road.
The fire flies, the cicadas
come out looking for each other,
flashing meager lights,
pulsing chirps through the twilight.

The sunset fills the sky, the house, clings to my hair like
dust caught in a sunlit room, suspended
in the air in a dance of gravity.
I am stunned with fondness, it
soothes me, pours from my skin like beads of sweat
dripping down my collar bone.

Free from the sting within myself,
I sit, I rock.