Everywhere we step
we step into the ejaculate
of the sun. Splurge
of daisies, spree of plums.
I am not ungrateful
for what I have not been given.
I do not begrudge
the rolling hills
their bouquets, unbridled
and at large, manifold
as marigolds.
The sun did not stand
us up. It was a standing
ovation. We lay
two abreast in its slow
boat, we lolled there
simultaneous with the zinnias
and chrysanthemums.
The breeze
was our anthem.
I am thankful
for what I do not have.
The sun, when it went down
made a salmon
lavender dipthong that
pronounced itself in us, our eyes.
We were two letters.
We made one sound.