I sat amongst the weeds and felt

their stalks twist against the wind into

my torso and catch on the invisible hairs

of my arms, a push and pull in time

with the rhythm of the blanket beating

against the patch of grass and dirt

where I settled.

A pennisetum setaceum, a

soft etching brush against skin

and a shiver ripples through me as it touches,

long spindly feathers bending over

with the weight of a thousand

microscopic suns, burning red

against my paleness, and the salve

is the green-black stems

shooting up into the white sky,

sunsets and sunburns

of red-brown-orange as they tower

over the other plants resting

in this field beside. Spores

float higher and higher with the wind

on the adagio created and housed

here in the rivets between mountains,

and I sit astounded and itchy

as I am serenaded by the burs

against me, in a time of delectation.