Cool Celebration

This day ends and
He begins to cool enough
To come again to poetry.

Since he has toes
To comb the grass with,
He goes out into a field.

A nerve of inevitability
Running up a thistle stalk
Gets there before him.

He sits and listens
To the sound of running light
In his veins,

And waits his turn
To unfurl, for reasons
That elude him, unless

As well as seen and heard
And touched and known,
He must be said.