Pink Among The Stubble Poem by Jenny Kalahar

I wake with the future washing over me
after a song, a prairie lullaby as alarm
interrupts a dream of the past, altered
where my pencil cannot reach shifting paper to write
and where the door to home
is always farther away than my arm's length

Our day is similar to the plan I had at waking, but altered.
There are little delays in the time arc
small arguments and irritations
the milk more sour
the clock too slow or fast
with mistakes in hearing, with forgetfulness
blending at the edges of forward motion

On an evening trip past cornfields
unshaven with winter's leftover stubble
we see too much rain and melted snow
have created ponds transformed
into smooth mirrors of sky

Each square of roadside farm field
a painting of pink-melted cloud
with brushes of white and mellow gray—
a new painting for each farmer
a new masterpiece for cows to wade through to their knees.
And when the painting darkens
from pale pinks to smoldering dyes
they will drink the final taste of sky
before heading home to dream