The grasses tell me of time—
we are long into summer.
I couldn’t say.
I am caught by the unchanging.
I hear it with my eyes
because no one sense will hold
the rolling cicada song,
the sway of the mind
watching
a sea of green churning under summer’s pull,
the humid, heavy air,
and rain that pretends to bring relief.
Pretending is ever disappointing.
The grasses lie.
We are deep within summer,
deep within every season.