Salt and pepper purled carpets
smelled of sultry dandelion fluff,
the sun illuminating the cinnamon
lincoln-log blocks resting on the dove-threaded swells.
(Is there peace in a metric rectangle, perched on the clashing seas?)
The hickory seeds would take to their feathers
as we kicked through their sunny fluff,
I’d see the full-seeded flower heads as a globe
where the equidistant inhabitants raised their wizened brows in triumph.
(How long ago did you realize the world could never be that sage?)
The dandelions are stitched
into the foreground of my memory,
though even then I knew
why the fences held obsidian arrows:
the stones in this meadow were graves.
(Did you know any of the dead, or are you searching again for kinder strangers?)
We searched for the most distant date,
18th and 19th centuries trailing across granite,