The Farmer’s Wife

Each morning the farmer rolls out his fields, and each night he ties them tight using the finest of twine.

“Don’t go out there,” he tells his wife with the withered hand, referring to the space left by the fields safely stored away in the barn, but of course she goes, stowing the lights from the farm house in her pockets, roaming the craters of blackness left in the land.

There are bandits in these parts.  They’d steal a field from under a fence, crack a calf from its safe, but she knows she’s safe, with her withered hand and the sloping way her mouth has of drifting down her face.

“Are you unhappy?” her husband had asked her, or was it why are you unhappy? or how can I make you happier?  Or maybe it was all a part of the dream she’s been waiting to wake up from.

She lies down on the bored out ground, surrounded by the place where a field should be.  She looks up at the space between the stars and puts herself there, holding the light from her pockets in her withered hand and remembering a time before time when all she was was light and space.

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