Cradle of leaves, wind-stirred, dances brittle beneath rocks, letting us catch a glimpse of the sun’s knees in the tall grass, as footsteps linger on whispered corners, taking our time to yield.

Skimming across those vibrant meadows, every tell-tale sigh
echoes through the air’s depths. Each field holds a thousand lives, painting swift curves in memory, softening the arcs they travel.

Time lays back for a moment longer,
ease of movement hints texture anew, as whispers of salt-touched winds, collect beneath the craning oaks.

Surrounding us like rain, laughter— so fertile in the stretch of day, we become equals in the verse—the warmth, but shadows fall somewhere else, always surging to behold anew.

• Muriel Rukeyser