Gleaning the Field by Mary Belardi Erickson


Snowflakes crisp the air.
From behind me, an afternoon plate
of sun brightens the furrows
made by the plow,
revealing yellow cobs
lost by the harvester.

As I walk the hardened rise and fall in the field,
I glide my boots from row-top to top.
Like The Little Prince who perched atop a small planet,
I can discover every high dirt bump is a world.

Soon, I float from furrow to furrow.
In this clarified breeze of movement,
I then pause to rotate and scan
the aura of a horizon’s further fields–
the tree lines, waterways and marsh grass.

Now to the field’s edge, I find myself continuing,
my sack filled with the hidden corn
from dirt clumps gleaned.
The chickens will feast tonight.


For Mary’s bio and another of her poems on WIZ, click here.


4 thoughts on “Gleaning the Field by Mary Belardi Erickson”

  1. Need to say that there is one magical thing that made me love this poem even more and that is that Belardi, in my language, means a field of grass.


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