clover

the find of the century

under a foot most likely

above the excrement

a thousand lichens left

this dirt black as death

a dour leaf clover

groping at the light

green with that one

jagged white stripe

one hundred yards

the hundred yard dash

crashing through the brush

on deer trails over the busted

dam holding back grass

in the granite clearing  

ahead stopping checking 

looking for crawling ticks

a taste a taste

into the pan with those all

alike and round as eyes

primarily special colors

some hot and one cold

at the core soft and white

cooking on stainless

flawless without laws

tastes for all

respite

a breath visible this day

in the sun lungs pump

saturated greenhouse gas

into the dormant plants

leafs dispersed back to earth

sidewalks

lining up in the rain

worms blind to their ways

they think about things

dirt, sun, yesterday all the same

today in the grip of strong rays

they squirm in place and fade

up in the trees robins preen

and speak of their ease