The Hay Is Blue

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By Laura Eklund

 

Then becomes his eyes

An Eastern sky light

Then a shadowy figure.

His eyes are for something less

Subtle as an axe

A tenderness not contained

And his hands motionless,

With no sound.

When the hay is turning blue

The lapses turn yellow

As far out as time.

Love makes the air tight.

It is without trope or testimony

We become the airy fuddle

On the window pane.

No inner dwelling

That encompasses

That loses or embraces

No arrow for life or thought

The hands juxtapose

Like a sullen windowpane

never moving

never opening.

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Laura Eklund lives and writes in Olive Hill, Ky. She has published three books, and has published in many journals including Southern Women's Poetry Review, ABZ, and Lalitamba. She is also an artist. You can see her art on Facebook at The Art of Laura Eklund.

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