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The grass grew as we were watching, heat trappedbetween the blades as if each one was made of glass,watching tadpoles, grass stains on our bellies,catching their wriggle in our hands, sieving waterlike gold prospectors, days tripping over each other.By the end of summer, they were tiny droplet frogs,content to sit upon a thumb nail, brave in their own skin.And I'd lay down in waist-high grass with you,watch the sky hang heavy above your moving shoulders,close my eyes to horse riders on a nearby hill, black against the sky like statues at a gate.