This data collector, binge watched all spring,
is void of opinions— stuck in the ground, foot dyed

clay orange, with creeping thyme creeping by.
This aggregator spills out harsh facts,

of the lavender bushes whose feet will rot
if left too wet— of humans downstream

along a steep path who might be swept away.
Surely, later this summer, joy will spill out—

it will tell of those fed, nourished, bathed in delights.
But for now, this open square in the earth warns.