From Here

Beyond the rough rails
a lush expanse reaches
toward a stand of oak,
the forest's mysterious edge.

Leaning on bleached wood,
you can count the wealth
of blades, Queen Anne's lace
and black-eyed Susans.

So many women. The raiment
of summer drenches these fields
in promise. It suffers the dust
on which you stand,

your acre of thistle and vetch
thick with bees,
the low, drowsy hum
of hunting nectar for honey.

The sun pours warm
on your shoulders for free
in what turns out to be this
good place to plant your feet.