Gary Robinson

Red Fields...

Into the red fields he goes.
Footsteps on springy soil no obvious
trajectory merely out for a walk.

I wonder if nature ever walks through us.
Construction and asphalt writes a diary
of a city's creeping progress, tempting
fans of green with parking lots,
bedding them down with sidewalks
and other engineering bones.

But scratch enough at something
surely the itch is curiosity
pointing to consequences
we ignore or stride over with guilty
half glances, knowing what
is buried may be disinterred,
turned over to bleary vision
accusatory or merely ridiculing
the species vanity of graveyards.
But dig deep enough and find
our own remains choked
in amateurish Buddha poses
repository of no wisdom, wrapped
in smirking earth and its patient ritual
civilization no longer remembers.

Into the red fields I go,
not sensing the footprints of trees
and rocks, sky and creatures in me.
Something travels through us every day
perhaps on a journey, wondering
what there is of interest
in our skeletons.