old field

can we go to the old field
far from meditations that just roll around your feet
I knew you deeply there
your black haze of night drew me to prayer
and I trampled the snow to find you
in the cracks of wood on a forgotten bench
life burned in that darkness
like a robin’s orange shout
and your delicacy,
the bird’s foot
stretched out all around me

Dan Flore III has volunteered to teach poetry to people suffering from serious mental illness. His works have appeared in Many Mountains Moving and Victorian Violet Press. He lives in Pennsylvania.