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.