Long after the prairie burnishes
the bluestem refuses to reveal its
innermost life.
Not every grace is ours to see—
one night the towering grasses
will restring their jade seeds
like paper lanterns
and ignite them with the moon.
But will you, ever sleeping,
always miss the fete?
Here you are again
stumbling through the heavy drapes
of their desire, slouching silent
against the spectacle that has befallen,
shamelessly scuffing the light.
