i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips i could retrace;
my swiftly simple soul was spilt
as i watched one flower wilt:
as each petal soft as felt
fell to the Earth where i was knelt,
i realized how cruel time
steams up the ridge of pantomime
whereby the tracks, upon the lip
of the hill, we toil and somewhen slip
and fall off the trecherous tracks
into the languid flowers. on our backs,
yawning exhaustly from the fall,
too timidly tired to utter a call,
we stare into the freckled blue
sky high above this flowered view-
ing bed; we listen to the distant whistles
with ourselves amidst the stamen and the pistils
as now here i nestle, sitting
with the empty stem of love spitting
hard, dry petals at my hand,
holding my body to the land
again i will not rise un-
til the face of the luminous sun
crests the western rise of pine
and oak, until her eyes shine
on my precarious body
against this sod. me,
with what memory whispers
¡ah, crescendo! in lead-lined slippers,
i left my work, my hammer
i left the cracked tracks clamor
to sift memory from the day
to knead the bread of heart; i say,
i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips i could retrace.
