Lying, back to the soft earth,
The wild brush reaching into the blue above,
Heather and thistle and lemongrass
Down drift in the air,
Grounding us--all that we know is real.
I find you, for what it's worth,
Less fictional than love,
A collection of short stories that last,
And for you, as for this place, I care.
There are so many lucid layers to peel.
Bare feet, laughter, a smile's birth,
Counting the colors of the wildflowers that hover
In time as it moves from present to past.
Perfection is a sentiment, perhaps unfair.
We are placed in this gentle ideal
With only the sunlight's unfolding girth
To dapple our skin through the foxglove.
This moment, fragile as glass,
Enchanting as it is rare,
Spins endless, a cog in this daydream's wheel.