I've simply appeared here, as if music-taken.
Maybe it was on a long moment of Sibelius.
Coming upon a large meadow
in the dimming of late afternoon.
So wide and plunging to distance,
and bordered by thick tall pines.
I think it must be mid-summer
now in this happening or opening --
vague little flowers, lilac-hued,
the turning grass, brooding pines.
This scene is familiar, where I am.
Was it some idle vision in Arkansas
long ago, carved out of a lost day
when wandering the wild alone...
and then later blended into a pause
formed of odd hope and foreboding?
I might have been here before or not.
Feelings hide here in planes of mood,
in texture become a weave of pale time.
A fugue of memory that looks like silence.
This swath opened just here, and I see it.
The black and wan yellow butterflies have flown.
I stand (perhaps) before dusk brings dragonflies.
It's not warm, it's not cool. It's a volume of looking.
Sunlight behind the far left stand of pensive conifers.
It bleaches out toward a horizon closed off to me.
No birds sing, and no sedge crickets chitter.
I will wait here and hope nothing happens.
This could be a delusion of music forgotten.
The meadow tells me night is coming sooner than later.