In Discovery Park
       

The hummingbird follows me
through the park and it takes a certain
ear to hear her. You say you wish
I lived more in my body. If you call me
            light-boned, I'll try. Grass fields
and stands of trees roll down to the water
in a palette of wheat tones, and the water
is a flat slate of gray that tips up
to the sky, as if the water had pivots
            at each end. You wish I were less
of a looking glass. The coin plants have gone
to seed again. How many could
            I pay you to keep my heart
a little longer? A million silvered discs
pour through your fingers.

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Copyright © 2015 Sonia Greenfield All rights reserved
from A Boy with a Halo at the Farmer's Market
Codhill Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission