Raking hay on a rough slope,
when I was about sixteen,
I drove to the ridgetop and saw
in a neighbor’s field on the other side
a pond in a swale, and around it
the whole field filled
with chicory in bloom, blue
as the sky reflected in the pond —
bluer even, and somehow lighter,
though they belonged to gravity.
They were the morning’s
blossoms and would not last.
But I go back now in my mind
to when I drew the long windrow
to the top of the rise, and I see
the blue-flowered field, holding
in its center the sky-reflecting pond.
It seems, as then, another world
in this world, such as a pilgrim
might travel days and years
to find, and find at last
on the morning of his return
by his mere being at home
awake – a moment seen, forever known.

— Wendell Berry, “1994. V” in The Timber Choir