Water bead grass bayonets cut tongues,
steely dew, fondant of morning rain.

How I love to lie eye-level to ground
to look up at tall blades against the sky.

I have an itch on my cheek that only closely
coiffed tightly tufted turf can scratch.

I mistake her smile for mist or soft rain,
so similar they are in drizzle pattern.

There’s a run of slatted fence traces hillsides,
hugs the rise and the run of the land as a tribute to time.

Eyes beguile but only if you let them, don’t you let them, don’t they say?
Sometimes the wax can be saved to create brand new candles to burn.

Eye-level to ground the flames from above
cast my outline as an amber cold hollow.

That which is me which does not pass light
rests immortalized sunk into shadow.

With morning comes water nourishing.
The eye adjusts to blue. Rain sugars dew.

© Chagall ∞

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