Raising water out of the well into the house.
A wheel works by stream’s force and
wires make another movement.
There in that house, the sound of a pump
dipping and rising, constant
rhythm like horses hooves on roads.
Silence and patterns blend with the orange
poppies and the scent of the herb garden.
It was there on that porch I declared I’d die.
for the trees in the far field. It was there in that sentence
I knew my body was a part of the land, truer
to earth than to man. It was easier then: I had no child.
And when the child came I shifted but still
some parts of bone, muscle and vein remain rooted
to the field, willing to fall with the trees in the distance
beyond the stream, beyond water wheel and lane.