monk of the field

he blends right in,
nothing splashy
to see, but when I
cast open my heart,
when I’m hungry
to know, and ask
a true question

he tunes into my query
intent, yet wide open—
in prolonged silence
he walks the woods
of my confusion—
stands as my friend,
dresses himself
in my question

then rests in the field
until the response arises—
as we step on the path,
and walk out of the woods
he takes my hand
and with quiet revelation,
unfolds my question

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.