Observing a spear of summer grass in the winter

I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to embrace all of the Field. In the summer, it's easy. Real easy. I can lie on in the grass and listen. The grass will talk to me. It will warn me against consistency. The grass will teach me the other ways to enjoy the scene before me. The grass says that if I close my eyes and listen I will notice that the Field sounds exactly the same as the beach. The grass invites my touch. I bury my toes amongst the spiders of the deep grass and realize that the grass between my toes is the same as the sand. The sun beams realization directly though my skin. I lie exposed on my back listening easily. Summer makes sense. Questions evaporate.

But now things just freeze and feel cold. A walk to the Field now requires a lack of sensitivity. To feel is to feel cold, in the winter. And I don't want to feel cold anymore. I want days that sound like birds growing out of trees that have forgotten how to be dead and turn green. So I'll leave New England soon and the Field too. I'll go someplace where everything always makes sense and its warm enough to always evaporate questions.