Thoughts upon Overlooking a Field



These are my hands, neatly collapsed
as an old whitened house, and they rest
as such.


A great wind has borne down upon
the field, lifted in the clench of its hand
a flock of blackbirds.

The field of grain moves in the richness
of its yellows, stark to the eye as a childhood
memory of sunlight.

The wind bears upon the land once more
running its hands along my scalp, and I taste
the grit of its dust.

Within me I feel the wind whipping
my soul as cleaned linen hung on a line,
glaring in the daylight.

Is freedom as such, or before me lay my sadness
expansive, the horizon line that steps off
to the sky.




Margaret Beaver is currently pursuing her undergraduate degree in Economics from Georgia State University. She resides near the metro-Atlanta area.