D is for daisies
Knee-deep in daisies I wade the selvedges of the summer,
The weedy waste edges of the standing wheat,
with the full weight of the sun on my shoulders,
roasting the marrow of my bones,
filling my blood with a flickering-quick vitality.
Each step kicks up sprays of rattling grasshoppers,
bright, chitonous drops from this drowsy ocean
now washing in whiteflower froth against my shins
while the bitter broken-daisy scent stings the air.
A hawk drops. I turn to watch, and one pearl of perspiration
trickles like a lizard
down my spine.