© Knot Magazine. Kristen D. Scott. All Rights Reserved
2014-2020 No images, or words may be taken from this site
without permission from Knot Magazine and the artists included.
A Dream of Wheat Field
The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps;
Then, moving in dazzling links and loops,
A marvel of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
Runs the color in the wheat.
When the wild winds rumbled past you in the fall fields
and you blessed them, you surrendered
to splendor, when you lifted up your ruins on the old road
remember the seasons
when the wind was new, when your hands
were good fire in the hands of travelers,
A land of plenty, where
Toward the sun, as hasting there,
The colors run
Before the wind's feet
in the wheat.
Wind, as it sings you; kneel there,
So faint and far it seems the drone
Of bee or beetle, seems to come
as you must have done, in your first
world, when the wind
A cloud flies there—
In the hollows like the twinkling feet
Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run
To the westward sun,
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat
was wind, when your ruin
was a music—you
who were no one, once, and colder,
and were open so wholly to the brokenness
that you sang to whatever left you empty
like the cello in the cello maker’s hands.
The Sound of Piper
The forest muffled the sounds
within and beyond
it as if the trees
themselves swallowed noise—all
but the tune of the unseen piper.
He followed the sound of the keening pipe.
The boy ran faster,
fast enough that it felt like he flew,
anxious to get to the world the song spoke of.
Its unfamiliar melody,
jarred him from the carnage.
It filtered through the pores of his skin
and infused him with the strength and warmth
he needed to run through the icy clutches of winter.
He even began to catch glimpses
of the piper through the trees.
Though he scampered and danced
as he played his pipe,
he appeared sometimes before,
and sometimes beside the boy.
He wore a black hooded cloak
that hid his face.
Beneath it his clothes were pied,
a patchwork of vibrant color
impossible to miss
whenever the wind whipped back the cloak.
His pipe and fingers were white,
And just like the boy,
he left no footprints in the snow.
Reena Choudhary born and raised in India. She graduated with honors in literature from Delhi University (INDIA) and also completed a one-year Diploma in Tourism. At present, she works in a private firm.