WHEN SUMMER BROKE
it was lonely underneath
an early sun,
and he was gone,
like an apple core thrown away.
He couldn’t be hidden
In that flatland
the wild herbs, the seeds,
like eyes, saw him,
the thousand seeds.
Through the short grass,
in snake country,
to the horizon, they waited.
Wild flowers, the pollen,
like eyes, saw him;
and the morning crows
overhead.
Jack Hayes
© 2010
Hi Kat: Thanks! & thanks for making the inaugural comment here. This one goes way back--I believe I wrote the original version of this in 1982 & then revised it some after I moved to Virginia in '84.
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