The Fieldstone Review

The Collective, 1950

after Marina Razbezhkina’s Harvest Time

She jumps from the combine
as if it were burning, leaps
over windrows to a crying child,
sucks a thorn from his foot,
washes him in ravine runoff.

Her husband, legless from the war,
watercolors her in a bright green
scarf – a gift for the rescue.

Harvests are white as homespun,
wheat on the threshing floor,
light cut by dust motes,

as butterflies that sift the fields,
get stranded in bedrooms at night
like pieces of torn sleeves.

Like the white horse
she must have dreamed.