The Grasses

At the end of summer,
we took our mother’s ashes in our hands,
walked into a field,
thrust fists
over bluestem and switchgrass.

The finer dust disappeared quickly,
but the larger pieces, shiny,
flared and burst before falling
into timothy, asters,
needle-and-thread.

The field was one blade
beside another,
each blade repeated, repeating
a profusion of hues,
summoned. Yielding.

We walked into the wind.
Overhead a hawk searched the field,
lingering…
Pinkish and gray-green,
tawny and seed-set,
the grasses kept blowing.
We left with dust lining our palms.