Irene of the Fields

Her step rustling on the cobbled road,
Tapping notes on the ardent August's scale.
A scrape of sun slithered like a snake in the gaps of the slate,
Lighting the grace of her colors.

She kneeled before the spring of cool holy water
Rising from the bowels of the earth,
Received communion from the chalice of her hands,
And disappeared behind the assembly of flaming reeds.

I saw her again--after much time--
As the plain's steaming horizon
Swayed in the harvested wheat,
Her short, torrid summer.