I am strawgrass on the backside of black sweaters,
Snow caught beneath the wrists of gloves.
I am the lathered pink of dew-eyed daybreak,
The burn of asphalt on feet and chlorine in eyes and stagnation in growing things.
You are the waltz of dying leaves,
The slumber of proximal stars.
You are the arch of a single blade of wet grass,
The lament of an afternoon cicada.
I am the squelch of mud and bare feet,
And you, the ephemeral flower, will bloom between toes,
And as the leatherback turns her sodden back upon the sea,
You shall quietly return yourself to me.
Denoument of decomposition;
An autumn to ants.