The meadow is rich
with the thunderhead in front, the dark
and violet swelling in the sky
on the verge of blooming or bursting,
you can't decide, and renounce
to think of a flower, in this bounty,
summer's outcrop, the unrestrained
brushstrokes of thick and tall
dishevelled grass, on air swallowing
slash after slash.
And gnats now in a hanging dance,
this thin drumming on your forehead,
the air's stare.
It's a hurricane, maybe, getting ready.
But for now everything is still,
the knuckles of the olive trees,
the oaks in their quiet puzzle of leaves
and the haze of gnats, eternity
lingering in its hum.
And your mind that so easily runs,
anticipates the storm, with that usual
mixture of fear and joy,
the fresh air, the change, the new breath,
whatever, being simply unable
to stay here and here only
in the feat of the present,
accepting the gnats
that do not leave you.