the earth cools
releases its scent like spores
the whole world dies down a little
in need of a bit of rest.
dewdrops enter you through a wound
in your hand, your foot, your mouth, you
never knew was there
until it existed.
everything is washed in this cool blue we will call
the grass, the aspen, the cricket’s
song droning on and on
like some sad jazz tune. heat
rises and rises, until finally someone turns on
every single star.