To Be

I was lying in a field,
surrounded by wheat like
jutting lances waging war
against the sky. The clouds,
confused, travel an impasse,
to be raked by the claws
of trees, black against the light.

My lips are the stage of love:
parted, parched, but red yet;
and kisses, rare now, tickle yet,
though players of today rarely
own your subtlety. To crawl
is not to kiss, and yet the touch
shares sometimes your intent.

The gold of my hair weaves
in among the nests of rodents
and small birds, and settles
where only roots and worms
have comfort. A corvid also
found a treasure—jade—and
carries it always. To be
useful: This is paradise.

In spring, the flowers blend
into the sunset, forgetting
to exist; summer bleaches them,
and, wearing dull smiles,
they accept all; autumn
burns and buries them;
winter lets them rest.