in the field of wild grass with the black truck

summer burned

across a field

that day 

he took the

picture of you

leaning against

the grill of 

a black truck

with your

da Vinci smile

the man

your driver

behind the camera

your husband

who drove you two there

did he spread

a blanket and

lay out

a basket of food

for you?

was he that

kind of romantic

i have always wondered

he loved you

i know that

but i suspect in the

only way 

that the men of his

generation

could show it

which was to

not show it openly

for risk of

being pale and

weakly

did lovers

love then like

lovers love

now

i've wondered

climbing into

old black trucks

with a feeble breeze

on summer days

to fall into each other

i know my mother 

was the

whip-snap of

passion in

her marriage to my father

i discovered them

my parents

when I was 10

in their bedroom

it was a summer day then too

and my mother

being a child of the

lovers in the field

of wild grass with

the black truck

means

i 

know

that

smile

you would not

admit it of

course why would you

the war years forced

a dispassion in that generation

i must re-imagine

the field that day

he took the picture of you

how it was a place afire

for you both

that he drove

that black truck up a hill

filleted by a dusty

rutted carriage path

amid waving grasses

and escorted you

somewhere

into that fiery field

to match the heavy air

then posed you later

the hair a betrayal

the grass waving sublimely

and

your husband 

in love with you