opened flowers

 

near-buried in the summer-young hay

with afternoon flits, swallows sounding in the wind

and grain-thieving varmints swimming

in the waves of this four foot tall

field cover, I wondered

what crayon color this was and dozed off

in the liferaft of a do-nothing day.

with each breath, a tide of sweet green air swelled in my lungs.

there is no quelling my thirst for green like this and

I drank deep the prairie vale,

its emerald fluorescence breaking along the moving hillside.

all that I could see before me was immutable, opaque, plate glass green.

I awoke standing (to opened flowers),

a challenge of parasols on fire

in the meadowed embers of the sunset,

and drank heavily through the evening,

washing down the mood-ring sky with these

flamenco blooms, their floral cast, and slowly lost my way

into the dark, azure tarpaulin shade of night.