Whatever an open field has always tried to say,
that’s what I long to say to you. That, and the blue thrill
that trills in the larkspur just before it blooms.
And the communion of threads in the blanket,
the sincerity of wild strawberries, and
whatever it is that lavender says to the nose—
those are the notes I would write into the song
I’m still learning to sing, this song I would tuck
into your back pocket so that you might,
in the middle of a day, perhaps, find it there,
like stars behind the blue noon sky
just waiting for their time to emerge.