What if this morning were to be the last,
sheathed in rain,
unsheathed steel gleaming in the sky?
Would I take more joy in the head-high fescue
that overarches buttercup suns
and the blue skies of flax?
(A deer gallops into the meadow; russet force treading the misty white and yellow, hidden from sight where the willows and dogwoods grow rooted in frog water. Another minute, head turned in distraction, and I would never have known. These presences occupiers of this space where we walk, grim-footed with our measures and fence posts, quiver between the seen and unseen of this interlude).
And if the dark gripped tighter
and dragged us deeper away from the light,
would I still feel the touch of your hand,
soft and thorny as the dog rose flowers,
winding through the hibiscus?