At the end of summer,
we took our mother’s ashes in our hands,
walked into a field,
thrust fists
over bluestem and switchgrass.

The finer dust disappeared quickly,
but the larger pieces, shiny,
flared and burst before falling
into timothy, asters,

The field was one blade
beside another,
each blade repeated, repeating
a profusion of hues,
summoned. Yielding.

We walked into the wind.
Overhead a hawk searched the field,
Pinkish and gray-green,
tawny and seed-set,
the grasses kept blowing.
We left with dust lining our palms.


Patricia Kilpatrick, "The Grasses" from Blood Moon. Copyright © 2020 by Patricia Kilpatrick. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Milkweed Editions,