Like sadness, most days of the year, 

can go unnoticed, 

 

the dry field outside 

wants to hide too, 

 

wants to be alone, 

wants to not communicate, 

wants to ponder a little longer, 

 

the wind, 

and keep its secret for once 

 

until it cannot, until it rains, 

 

and perhaps, 

where its blurred plain fills the window, 

 

turn green 

again— 

 

cloud shadow breaking open 

with little birds 

 

flipping and folding 

over its color— 

 

so green and seldom so, we have to stop 

just to look 

 

and take in its honest intensity— 

 

how it says, with a green flush, 

 

that it’d rather make demands, 

or better yet, just sing them for once 

 

(you know lovers meet in fields like this) 

 

I don’t know how to be any more quiet. 

 

Without you, there is only field.