The grass
knows your
name and
the flowers
growing in
the meadow,
stand upright,
and turn
their faces
toward you.

They are
all color
and seed
your heart
until nothing
can grow in
it but blue
and purple
and gold.

To be alone
and dying
is what they
do everyday
without complaint.
Their stems
bend and break,
everything is
done in silence,
even you pause,
sinus, in the slow
autumn afternoon.