In the new grass
a cat left his nap,
a sleep shape
where the stems
lie flat.
A naturalist, I collect
naps, but so does the rain
the clouds are threatening
and I don’t mind
giving in
to Spring.

Under the hayflower
falling, we found her
seated, selling woven stuffs
in skirt relief
(delicate bird-lice
wax left
besting indigo bleeds).
Patterns, with the needs
of the wearer,
recede. Under the hayflower
falling, she felt
the fabric
folklore, soft
on the tops
of her knees, her feet,
light as lighting the morning
fire’s footfalls, dyed
vast shades of dawn,
twice as deep.