In the Meadow

Bellows breath hums in the tired throat

as the wet warm air swells the lungs,

mid-meadow with legs outstretched over

prickly grass through the fabric to the skin.

I am willing the heart to slow, in the pale

face of the swaying foxglove sea, fingers

brushing gritty prairie dock leaves. I am

willing the mind to quicken a reason I want

to stay and count the moons of each year.

Did I dare to desire the unsheltered freedom

of the afternoon meadow, to hold the soft

mullein on delicate skin bared to the sun,

poison humming in the veins? I want still

to measure the rising suns change and chart

their entries along the fence, willing now

the humming to silence, willing the hearts

cadence to change. I want a fist to stake

this ground under a noon summer sun

and then hold the north star in my open

palm, watching where your shadow stands

and falls, its trunk pierced and tied so long

as the day stretches the hours. And to sketch

this treasure map to troves of vernal blooms

and pools drying down, the smudged ink

listening as the stones cry out to the stars.

June 2026

Laura M Schwartz