Softly silhouetted against the dull blue sky
She looks across the rolling meadows
To see if the men are coming with the day's last load
She looks and still she does not see
The melting shadows of the wood
That frame the field.
There she stands, and since only the familiar meets her gaze
Her dreams go undisturbed until
Far from the homely view
She wanders through a meadow not unlike the one before her
But one adorned with flowers unfamiliar,
Strange of scent, and with a wealth of beauty never seen nearby
Her dress hangs limp and soiled
After her household chores;
And her hair, though soft is straggly,
Her face sagged in repose is wistful, tender, young;
From within a longing and imagination
Playing together give a certain quality
That cannot be defined, but make her almost pretty.
Not conscious of the reason why she dreams and idles so
She lingers. Still a moment,
Then sighing in resignation, she turns to fill the stove
And draw the water for the table,
In the distance a cloud of dust
Spirals up into the blue
(like dreams dispelled and scattered by realities)
And the horses start the last, long stretch
Across the meadow toward the barn.