"This Field and Everything in It" by Wesley Scott McMasters

one year to the day

            after my grandfather died

            is easter sunday


            my father asks me to walk with him

            through the woods to look for morels


            he tells me that they grow in old orchards

            or vineyards

            sometimes beside the decaying body of an old apple tree


            this orchard is small

            next to the foundation of a farm

            abandoned after a world war


            this orchard is our dome on this sabbath


                        and I haven’t kept the sabbath going to church in quite some time


            my grandfather would keep his sabbath on saturday and sunday

                        as he thought Christ would want it


            my father and I wade through brush

                        and bramble


            a vine reaches and chokes the life from the tree next to it


the vine bears no fruit


            and blood begins to run down my legs

                        like the blood of Christ

                                    waiting to rise


            crowns of brambles and thorns around my ankles and my shins

                        with my grandfather’s blood

                        my own

                        soaking into the ground

                        of the orchard


            we leave without a harvest


                        but maybe next year