Passion
Passion
Years later, an old man, he remembers
One spring, opening earth that then was his,
The new leaves like swaths of watercolor
Brushed over the trees. He turned every now
And again to watch the shares tearing up
The stubborn sod and the avid birds drop
To glut themselves on pink worms in the wake.
It was then he felt surging up in him
A desire he hadn’t felt in years,
A father with two daughters and a wife
He turned away from at night, not out of
Lovelessness but weariness. He knew it
Was too rare a feeling to just ignore
And so stopped in the middle of the field,
And stood up, and unbuckled his belt, and
Made quick work of it, then went on plowing,
Feeling slightly ashamed, as if someone
Had been watching. Of course someone had been.
Himself as an old man, remembering.