To Lie in Summer

to lie in summer grass uncut by suburbia or the commerce of hay
to lie in this aura, this odor of soil and cured grass,
to lie under the flagging blooms of Timothy, Brome or Western Bunch
bannering against a blue so vast that whole lives cannot know it,
to lie in this overture of death, and to let timelessness
lengthen with the shadows of the sun
to lie thus past the shadows and into the shadowless night,
the stars flickering above the dark blooms of grass,
to lie thus until forever.
For this is the engine of joy:
to lie in this pasture of grass and know this overture
regardless of whether there follows
any coloratura, aria, or cadenza.

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