For just about—ever
the very same
afternoon
sun has lied
rippling—its endemic
and its undulating
vibrato across—
some field
or other
of wild morning grass;
as if—singing
the easiest
and the
most selfish thing
that anyone
or anything
could think of
to sing
and still intend it
as a gift—
if the opposite
of
simplicity
exists,
it'll simply have
to wait
for later.