One Day's Return, Long Past Childhood

It is time . . . to locate ourselves
by the real things we live by.
—William Stafford

You walk out beyond pasture
to see where it will take you. Dawn
blossoms from the hilltops. No breeze.
You come to still drowsing fields, a rock slope
with buttercups congregating.

Something in you scours the earth
for what memory knows you’ve wanted.
Bright flags of paintbrush, always erect.
A Meadowlark calling a brief pliant prayer.

Foothills now, and a stream
with its easy moving on. . . .
Scent of sage like remembrance.
Regrets come back with a sudden
moving shadow: overhead a hawk
glides and glides
then falls—
the clean precision of a blade.

Should you feel guilt for days
of loving something easy? You try
to pay attention—all this normal beauty!

In the press of high altitude sun,
you will turn back to the farmhouse
and cooling spring water . . .
bone ache almost welcome.

Soon dusk will rise up lavender
from all the hollow places—benediction
for one day’s passing.