First light. This misted field <br /> is the world, that man <br /> slipping the greased bolt <br /> <br />back and forth, that man <br /> tunneled with blood <br /> the dark smudges of whose eyes <br /> <br />call for sleep, calls <br /> for quiet, and the woman <br /> down your line, <br /> <br />the woman who screamed the loudest, <br /> will be quiet. <br /> The rushes, the grassless shale, <br /> <br />the dust, whiten like droppings. <br /> One blue <br /> grape hyacinth whistles <br /> <br />in the thin and birdless air <br /> without breath. <br /> Ten minutes later <br /> <br />a lost dog poked <br /> for rabbits, the stones <br /> slipped, a single blade <br /> <br />of grass stiffened in sun; <br /> where the wall <br /> broke a twisted fig <br /> <br />thrust its arms ahead <br /> like a man <br /> in full light blinded. <br /> <br />In the full light the field <br /> your eyes held <br /> became grain by grain <br /> <br />the slope of father mountain, <br /> one stone of earth <br /> set in the perfect blackness.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-end-of-your-life/
