You can say at the age thirty four
one does become a staid connoisseur
of cool evenings, the time of merciful
setting dew, of leaf-breathing through and through
when every tittle of floating moisture
goes unwasted: nightfall divests itself
that flowers can fold themselves
and roots regain their drink,
expanding in the soil lounge
of surety for stem and leaf.
Perhaps the body is never so sure
as when it sleeps, though it dreams,
like flowers that close themselves
in the divestment of evening,
inviting a guardian circumnavigation
that holds it, like a star in void;
becomes so embodied
body seems a different body,
then wakes, and in labour,
tension and release, in sport and play,
the body abstracts itself, expunges
waste and draws upon nutrients
to partake and form, to form
in partaking, something beyond the body.
As one gets older the little things
you never noticed get fresher and fresher.
Perhaps one could say in the evening of life
the peat moss pots of the seedling sunflowers
draw like a sponge the available moisture;
and even the neglected dessicated
light as feathers for lack of water:
the little sunflowers wilting right over
pick up their faces.