Whitmonday
"Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven"
The red-winged blackbirds held their breath a moment.
The wheat leaned once, as if it heard its name.
A door left open swung without a reason,
then stilled. The light was ordinary. The same
old light — until the beanpole held a fire,
a small tongue, pale as any minor saint
depicted in the margin of a psalter,
bright without heat, not long enough to kneel.
On the fence post, briefly. On the broad back
of the ox. The flies went still a moment.
Something moved above the furrows. Then
it passed. The crows arose. The flies, then everything.
The afternoon resumed its Maytime weight.
Only the farmer stood a moment longer,
hat in hand, before he shut the gate.