Before a saur like a Dino, But a poke instead. A conductor of light, spun right over head. Buried alive, end of season it dreads. Phoned-in ‘us’ at the end, it’s plump and round-ed.

Orderly fields where the giants rest, cradling the sweetest of treasures on their arms. Whispers of a gentle breeze and soothing rain would cause the faintest of stirs, but ultimately, they only slumber on.

Round and round the sun we go, each day marked in a row. My pages turn, seasons flow, keeping track of time's gentle show.

A state of being, From flower or tree Or mountains or plant To recall them all I can't With me you can see tall Or not well at all Though at any rate, You probably can't walk straight Without me, crushing pressure Or thoughts fresher

Thousand upon thousands of grains am I, beneath the sun and open sky. I line the shores and deserts wide, where small hands build, and waves decide.