The sun is on me as
No other time before,
And things are what they are.
A flower withered is
A flower bloomed. I am
Grown into every stone,
And every stone is grown
Into the blue blue sky


The sun is on me now
In heavy cubes of gold.
And I am broken down
Into the primitive
Components of the grass
And spinning beetle, rose
Of evening; and my bones
Shatter in flocks of light

Last Modified 8 June 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007