The Sun on Your Shoulder

We lie together in the grass,

sleep awhile and wake,

look up at the cloverheads

and arrowy blades,

the pale, furred undersides

of leaves and clouds.

Strange to be a seed, and the whole

ascent still before us,

as in childhood

when everything is near

or very far,

and the crawling insect

a lesson in silence.

And maybe not again

that look clear as water,

the sun on your shoulder

when we rise,

shaken free of the grass,

tall in the first green morning.