The grass is dense with perspective,
but I don’t paint.
The lattice of green and brown reaches
to a forever point on the horizon,
lit perfectly for capture,
but my easel sits undisturbed.
Today I noticed stalks growing up its legs;
My own feet have become so enmeshed
in the network of roots
that I cannot walk.
Years pass like this.
I sit in the tall reeds and hide
from the field mice that are known
to carry plague.
I search the dirt for traces of gold
left behind by worthier pioneers.
I watch the wind toss the blade clusters
as if they were schools of fish
caught in the tides.
Night will rise; The light will fade.
And I will have my excuse
for yet another