A Place of Quiet

Here is a place of quiet.

Not the quiet of tears

Or the alone quiet of loneliness

But the quiet of bird song and insect wing

And seed drifting over shifting grass

Blades murmur to one another

"My, do you see the orange-tip?

Doesn't he look fine today?"

There is no time but that of blossom,

Daisy bows to brash, bright dandelion

Whose seeds drift drowsy in the noontime heat.

I arrive through nettles,

Reaching, whispering

Yearn to touch,

To flatter me with

Poisonous tongues in the dark

In the dappled dark

Of midge, and moving leaf,

Come, come, child,

Come!

And dine with us tonight!

I arrive to the company of buttercups

And when I sit, at last,

Have yellow pollen painted on my shins.

A butterfly of pulsing blue

Like sky and silvery lake where children play

And blue of satin dresses

Dances through the yellow

And he comments as he comes to rest

"My, doesn't grass look fine today?

Her slender stems tinged violet with flower?"

I nest myself on matted stalks and think.