"insect's eye"

as blades of grass
cut morning dew, I blink
the sun from my hot eyes
and think of you, and where
we went. Right or wrong,
our day shall be
well, spent: extravagantly bought
and paid in coin of realms
by shores
of seas laid under
spell: so soft now, to sleep.
Perchance to dwell, cool
by breeze.

Perchance to change. Perchance
to keep, jingling now - brass
and nickel bells, in pocket
of the jeans you wore the day
we let it rain. Perchance
to weep.

- but wither now? Wither us?
What time, why fate, which chance? And what
luck shall we make dance, and whose funeral
shall we brighten, with our vows
to live?

I ask you now,
unfairly. Give or take, fair
life isn't
and ain't. Such things
as these cannot be known,
at least, temporarily. We wait
in vain, without complaint.

What will be
shall unfold
as buds in the sun,
petals breathing into season, parasols
for bugs below,
scuttling for a crumb