After the Rain After the rain, it’s time to walk the field again, near where the river bends. Each year I come to look for what this place will yield— lost things still rising here. The farmer’s plow turns over, without fail, a crop of arrowheads, but where or why they fall is hard to say. They seem, like hail, dropped from an empty sky, Yet for an hour or two, after the rain has washed away the dusty afterbirth of their return, a few will show up plain on the reopened earth. Still, even these are hard to see— at first they look like any other stone. The trick to finding them is not to be too sure about what’s known; Conviction’s liable to say straight off this one’s a leaf, or that one’s merely clay, and miss the point: after the rain, soft furrows show one way Across the field, but what is hidden here requires a different view—the glance of one not looking straight ahead, who in the clear light of the morning sun Simply keeps wandering across the rows, letting his own perspective change. After the rain, perhaps, something will show, glittering and strange. Reprinted from Darkened Rooms of Summer. Jared Carter's most recent book of poems is The Land Itself, from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. Healing All it takes is time. A blister _____develops on Your palm, corpuscles minister, _____and it is gone Within the week. The earth itself _____regenerates, And color springs from that deep shelf _____or barren waste Come back to life. In this way each _____remembered face Or wave approaching some far beach _____falls into place. reprinted from Peacock Journal Jared Carter is a poet living in Indiana.