Boyhood

I remember a long field,
no pathway through.

The way the light
climbed fathomless heights
and remained
in periphery.

Long mornings
near trains,
bruising our heels
on the ballast,
hunting snakes,
mesocyclones
gathering
on the horizon.

Each moment
was a completeness
unto itself.

I remember
the wind
in the long grass,
the leaves,
the waves —
listening the way that
children do,
waiting for nothing.

Our stillnesses
came reluctantly,
but God
was in each one.

Before the
days lost
the gold of that certain
slant near dusk,
and my feet
tramped
the tall grass
into trails.