D is for daisies

98 in the shade

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.