I’m surprised the mild wind that brought me here
could turn so quickly spooky. Kicked-up, horse-like.
Or, when standing still & I sense myself askew,
at a slight angle to the universe, confused
re: the who & what & how. How to openopenopen.
How to harvest flax without degrading the hills.
The violet and low-rolling hills.
It would help to have a basic understanding
of thermodynamics to better parse, for example,
the ins and outs of heat exchange. As in, it’s a cold day
in March, you put your hand in my pocket.
Put your fine, cold hand in my flannel-lined pocket.
It would help if you’d talk a little Brontë, a little Austen
to me while we stroll across the softening fields
to the lambing shed where we’ll kneel down
in our muddy boots and count the curly heads.