Wildflowers in Moonlight

What does a daisy do at midnight? What looks up at the moon and says "sister?" What is the function of a question in a deterministic universe? It's a laugh a minute with that guy. A silver staircase at the top of which she turned to look back, very much not the way a condemned man turns back a last time after reaching the scaffold. I walk a mile or so south to the swampy meadow off Fairgrounds Road in order to look at wildflowers in moonlight. Nothing is absent, not even the sense that something is absent is absent. Rain clouds move high and fast, roughly in the direction of Cape Cod. Sagging peonies near the chickens. Remember catching crayfish and roasting them at dusk? There is so much pain, often where we least expect, and yet hunger goes on, eating goes on. Sunlight as when I was a child the sun was everywhere. The luminous green of certain mosses, the luxury of promises. We talk about kissing, we recall certain kisses and later, in bed, fall asleep without kissing.