The Sign

Twilight at the striated
fields softens their bonds,

the tawny and moss
lash-marks of culture, till.

That loam more fertile
than its forced yield

is infinite to plumb.
What calls in approach

from the border-forests
is absorbed by the palpable

gris-gray swath. Grange
fades out. A trace of grange

remains. When behind a tree
all of its shadows shuffle

to a whorl perpetually
descending into the horizon

you are these first unutterable
futures. I came to tell you

I cannot say what I have become.

Copyright © 2006 Elizabeth Sanger All rights reserved
from Meridian
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission