Sunday, April 28, 2019

on the hill late at night

The ripe grassheads bend in the starlight
in the soft wind, beneath them the darkness
of the grass, fathomless, the long blades
rising out of the well of time.  Cars
travel the valley roads below me, their lights
finding the dark, and racing on.  Above
their roar is a silence I have suddenly heard,
and felt the country turn under the stars
toward dawn.  I am wholly willing to be here
between the bright silent thousands of stars
and the life of the grass pouring out of the ground.
The hill has grown to me like a foot.
Until I lift the earth I cannot move.

~ Wendell Berry
from Farming Poems
photo from kathleen connally