We cross the field

Sometimes, pale can be interesting.

I used the app Phototoaster for this.

Untitled poem beginning with a line from Shirley Kaufman, a poet my teacher recommended.

We cross the field
what we seek should be over there
beyond the sheets of yellow mustard,
the abrupt parking lot, domain
of high-rises and shopping malls,
pebbled macadam softening in the California
byways; the hope of something lost returned.

Or something yet unseen revealed--
eerie faint cries of bats pouring up from the cave.
In the great basilica, Evensong--
echoes of this past, this stone, the mention
but without specificity. A faint hint
of wintergreen in a chill room; a blanket
thrown carelessly across a chair.

A campanile. They walk, these two
not touching, yet, their arms straight down,
the space between is touched by
light, then by a moving shadow. She enters
the room with identical small flower-filled vases
and sets one on each side of a Buddha, before
she rings the bell.

June Hopper Hymas

This is the poem I promised you last night. I tweaked it slightly and made it into stanzas.

I would still like a title and will work on it some more. 

Now, here is your task: pick a phrase, like "the space between" or "faint cries of bats" 

and use it to take off on your own poem. Send it to me, if you would like to.