Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours
out wishes to the overhead stars.
The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow
coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.
Summer Grass, Carl Sandburg
The stars are pinned between the leaves
of the trees, and love is only a harbinger,
a regular Boy Scout handbook
of things not to do, and how to do other things,
small chores you’d never think of,
and supper gets cold on the table.
But I can’t leave here without
taking you with me.
And the formal customs we once had,
like wearing red during hunting season,
are only signposts pointing the way
in and out of the territories—
colored leaves floating on the water,
hesitant, before the rains come.
Field Guide, Cynthia Zarin
