35

…

A little spider on the written page
Looks up at me. I do not bother her
Nor does she me where I have come to lay
Myself down in the grass like a brother
Queen Anne’s Lace crowning our heads and blue tufts
Of wild anise. This field used to be corn.
Now Daddy’s old and doesn’t do that much
Work. It’s a luxury to have been born
Where I can see eye to eye with flowers
Swirls, spirals whose minuscule white petals
Blanket the whole ground, white as another
Page where I may write but never settle
Just like this meadow that I’m sitting on
Will rise back up itself when I am gone.

…