<bryant voigt's "winter field"> 2003-09-02.11:43 a.m. Winter Field Ellen Bryant Voigt The winter field is not the field of summer lost in snow: it is another thing, a different thing. "We shouted, we shook you," you tell me, but there was no sound, no face, no fear, only oblivion--why shouldn't it be so? After they'd pierced a vein and fished me up, after they'd reeled me back they packed me under blanket on top of blanket, I trembled so. The summer field, sun-fed, mutable, has its many tasks; the winter field becomes its adjective. For those hours I was some other thing, and my body, which you have long loved well, did not love you. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad