I cannot help inventing you
when the wind makes these waves in the green field
I cannot help seeing you bigger than life
through the lens of silence

I cannot help feeling you wrap me in this very air
thus
being
en-wrapt-ured
in the wheat field at twilight

it’s late May
whose very shadows and shades are green
and alive

I cannot help gazing at this mystery
[what we gaze upon is ours, it is ourselves]
the sun at dawn touching the petals of poppies
shining through their translucent capillaries
lighting their passionate, delicate, ephemeral invitation
that had been there unseen through the night

I cannot help seeing you in this boy of ten
in the other one of twenty
as you must have been walking your
dreamy imponderable elated gait
up this street
once

there is somebody something
in the wheat field and the poppies
season after season

somebody out there
who cannot help
inventing
us