Hay Field and Calendar

soon your broken off
piece will walk and talk
the scent
of that day coming
roars through
folded time

compressing swift
toughness, leaded lips
I’ll speak like cotton
and a spun wing
lifts such guilted face

you: a calendar.
my series of boxes edged
a perfect ribbon
and I: that field, a square yes.

but ever-ragged after the hay
is cut and bound, my senses
baled
and stored. Rhythmically
I grow back
toward future, little
more than splintered

stalks twine the sun
in alfalfa roping,
lay like gloss
on the open square
of that month

and whatever piece
on offer
head and hands folded
open, my vast comes
forth to soak
the scent of time.