Fields gaze at me, as if I’m
a small ant. So I
turn my head, lean on the glass, and hope
in this gaze. Tender enough to cup my face
and seek my watering eyes. I
catch no words as we pass from tree
to tree, flower to flower, rows of them. Now
if there was a translation of
the conversation between fields and a small
ant, it would be, “You
belong here with us, with all you see. As well as
with all you don’t.”

It was mid-week when I felt so small,
like an ant, as you felt distant. So far away
for the first time since we’ve met. It was mid-week;
the next day it would be summer solstice.
But the season felt like autumn, I thought
I was a leaf let go by a tree
because that’s the way it is. I resisted
as I snapped suddenly, broke from your twig and that’s when
I felt like an ant. It was mid-week and
it was summer solstice. You would be
up in the air, away, from everyone
just like what you wished for deeply.
Indeed, so far away. The day
would be the longest then. I would shrink into the size
of an ant, just as everyone departs but never seems to arrive.

Yet there are fields that gaze, moon
that reddens into the color as our blood, poetry
which heals fragments day by day. “You remain to belong here
with us, amidst forests and fields of wild flowers
and of tall trees on this planet, on this
galaxy, and with all you see. As well as with
all you don’t, and perhaps
won’t ever be able to.”
Forgive yourself for resisting as you
fell from the tree. Let yourself be held by the gravity,
and the gaze of the fields. Then you will understand
departure is one with arrival. You are free to fall
among the fields, feel the expanse
as it welcomes you today
and forever.