I walk up to follow 

the pockets, pockmarks, and absence 

of light on the field, but by the time I reach 

the road, the last shadow has left

for foliage that teases sky. 

 

The sun’s stories are starker, less varied 

and I have to remove my sunglasses 

to measure the radius of its truths:

 

A section of certain grass shimmers

greyer on top and greener below than what surrounds it, 

its neighbors not so given to wind, not so taken 

as to easily blow, not so gaudy as to shake 

and shimmy the way this bright spot does.

 

From here, pinwheels wink and glint, 

like resident, garden stars.

Pompous leafy stalks stand tall by the road,

stringier and bendier daffodil-like greens gossip 

and lean to whisper something juicy to the cut grass.

 

Something to miss in the hot blaze 

of getting ready, always, 

for the next task.