A new embroidery of flowers, canary color,
dots the grass already dotty
with aster-white and clover.
I warn, “They won’t last, out of water.”
The children pick some anyway.
In or out of water
children don’t last either.
I watch them as they pick.
Still free of what’s next
and what was yesterday
they pick today.
Marie Ponsot would have been 100 years old today. She almost made it.
Language floods the mud; mind makes a cast of words;
it precipitates, mercurial, like T’ang discourse
riding the tidal constant of its source.