Evan Rhoades

Lines Composed in Slovakian Fields

I pass a coal-black cat, meandering

Along the path toward the trees, alone.

No superstition draws me, nor dissuades

My wandering way beside the chapel walls,

Ancient as the cobble at my feet.

It’s no small thing to leave a place like this

Save when one is heading to the vale.

A faded archway guards the green-gold gates,

And who could know what splendor soon awaits

Far past the stone-paved streets of Spišská, sliding

Down the hill toward emerald shadows. Underneath

These darkling trees and low-strung leaves, I cast

Myself from me. Cathedral bells toll low

And long, their song borne by the breeze that bends

My heart to listen and receive.

                                                  This day

There is no sound in me, for if there be,

I would soon drown the orchard’s softest sigh

And, tear-soaked, cry for deaf and blinded men.

The garden closes in. Apples dapple

Sight and sound. With such sweetness, souls are crowned.

Stippled leaves tug at my skin, and bark-bold

Trees invite me in, their sun-lit voices

Soft and smooth as apple skin.

Yet solitude is not found in the grove.

For that, I must a greater space behold.

A bough of farewell arches overhead

As I descend, held breathless by the bend.

Bale-broad valleys greet me, sloping waves

Of wondrous green, aging fields like furrows

In my palm. I hold them close—hold them still

Within my heart. I scarce could keep them back!

The forests cleared by farmers here still stand

Upon the crest of far-off hills. The dale

Is but a tender-hearted borrowing

Of Nature by her children—old and young.

Hills flow forth from Spiš’s sober vales.

Orchards spill about her boundaries, bending

Low to deep and boundless fields that hold

Their sway o’er every solemn, wandering way.

Tender is the touch of wild grass

Before the pasture breaks and bends its blades.

Unshod, I slip my feet across the sod

To feel the earth from which I first was made.

This field is sure—no fallow thing like man.

There can be no question. He is here.

For on the fresh-born farmland is the mark

Of my Creator, close at hand and heart,

His painting fresh at every view, smudged

Only by the dust inside my veins.

His sweet perfection echoes through my stains.

Wordsworth knew the quiet of the sky,

But here, behold the quiet of the land,

The silence of the seed and of the soil,

Whispers of the Lamb who’s known disgrace.

No cities cross my eye, save copses, crops,

And flowers close at hand and near at heart.

Bright-bold violets, lazy sunflowers,

And violet iris crocus, flaming out,

Their centers set vermillion, purple

And red, the contrast preaching to my soul

The Passion—King among creation.

The sun besets my skin and lingers there,

Such that I can hardly stand its touch.

Reality has struck me all at once,

As if the light was lost behind my eyes

Until Eden set it free.



                               When faced with

The enormity of Him, some cower

Behind Nature’s silken strength. Small, they find

Themselves, made weak in limb and lacking grace.

But I have never felt so great a strain,

As if my soul would burst forth from this place,

Leave dirt and dust behind in this poor form,

And join to grass and root and tree until

The springtime settles me in solitude.

Then I would know that He is in all things,

And if in all, then sure in me.

Evan Rhoades is an author, poet, and freelance editor born and raised in Bellingham, Washington. He has a BA in English from Northwest University and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Saint Thomas. He has published multiple essays in the Saint Austin Review and is an acting co-author of the YA science fiction series Space Pioneer. Evan's greatest aspiration is to write poems and stories that re-enchant the imagination and safeguard the soul against modern malaise. His website is www.rhoadeswriting.com.