Blue Country Poem by Caroline Misner

In the meadow
beyond the field, dill
grows among the wind-
swept grasses.
Can you detect a sort
of divine interaction here?
If not then you’re
either blind or asleep.

Damselflies waltz in the nearness
of green, the field
is a map of twitters and hums
from creatures who’ve
forgotten the season,
still dreaming of spring.

Stepping down through trough
and water, I’ve arranged
my pink geraniums under the sun,
planted bulbs of daffodils
not to flower until
the snows have ebbed
their deep furrowed hems
from the horizon;
so long from now I can’t
even imagine at time
like that.

Beyond are blue hills
to which there is no exit.
The only reason I’m
still here is because
it’s so familiar.
Everything on this plain
assembles in inconsequence;
the sky of marbled cobalt
nets the sun into the clouds;
wasps sip squandered cider juice,
ignoring me.
Their season to fruit
is done.