At the Field’s Edge

                                   Dryad: Sentinel

I doze at the frontier of my life.
It takes a lack of wind to wake me
from the dream of myself. Fog keeps
closing in, wrapping me in ever

thicker layers. I have stood here
so long that I have sunk ankle deep
into the earth. I can no longer
wiggle my toes. My fingertips mark

the end of my reach. I need a gust
of wind to twist and turn. I seem
to drip tears. My dew drenched limbs, torso,
glisten. That rustling sound, my breathing.