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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358539" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Hartley Field</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And place is always and only place <br>And what is actual is actual only for one time <br>And only for one place . . . <br>T. S. Eliot</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wind cooled as it crossed the open pond<br>and drove little waves toward us,<br>brisk, purposeful waves<br>that vanished at our feet, such energy<br>thwarted by so little elevation.<br>The wind was endless, seamless,<br>old as the earth.<br>  Insects came<br>to regard us with favor. I felt them alight,<br>felt their minute footfalls.<br>I was a challenge, an Everest . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you, whom I have heard breathe all night,<br>sigh through the water of sleep<br>with vestigial gills . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A pair of dragonflies drifted past us, silent,<br>while higher up two bullet-shaped jets<br>dragged their roars behind them<br>on unbreakable chains. It seemed a pity<br>we'd given up the sky to them, but I understand so little.<br>Perhaps it was necessary.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All our years together—<br>and not just together. Surely by now<br>we have the same blood type, the same myopia.<br>Sometimes I think we're the same sex,<br>the one in the middle of man and woman,<br>born of both as every child is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The waves came to us, one each heartbeat,<br>and lay themselves at our feet.<br>The swelling goes down.<br>The fever cools.<br>There, where the Hartleys grew lettuce eighty years ago<br>bear and beaver, fox and partridge<br>den and nest and hunt<br>and are hunted. I wish I had the means<br>to give all the north back to itself, to let the pines<br>rise in the hayfield and the lilacs go wild.<br>But then where would we live?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wanted that hour with you all winter—<br>I thought of it while I worked,<br>before I slept and when I woke,<br>a time when the tangled would straighten,<br>when contrition would become benediction:<br>the positive hour, shining like mica.<br>At last the wind brought it to us across the pond,<br>then took it up again, every last minute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Connie+Wanek">Connie Wanek</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358539" data-title="Hartley Field de Connie Wanek" data-description="And place is always and only place 
And what is actual is actual only for one time 
And only for one place . . . 
T. S. Eliot

The wind cooled as it crossed the open pond
and drove little waves toward us,
brisk, purposeful waves
that vanished at o..."></div>
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