Where have you gone, sweet timothy
that used to lay itself low on the old roadside?
And where did you take
the black-eyed susans and their pretty dresses?

The old blue car would have been covered up
by the length of you both along those hedgerows. 
We passed by by your eyes many times–
sweet and unseeing what was to come. 

We just took the old blue car to the old smoke town,
ground ourselves against each other,
blunt little knives–the dull kin
of threshing men.

He still calls your name, sweet timothy, 
black-eyed susan on the old roadside.
Out by the road now, new growth spreads
and someone else calls their name now:
fescue and wild onion, buttercup and thyme.