pasture

at leisure, everyting in its place
the moment swinging back from gratitude
into the heat of afternoons working outside

the stable of sun and sky at play
in the field of repeating days that squander
themselves into night, into the froth

of calendars and opportunity, the clash sounds
like living but missing the meaning behind
the play, the wreck of living half-assed,

and dreaming of fields at play