I know it is mythologically wrong,
but, in my eyes, the sun always rises
over the water and sets behind
the hills. Sometimes the hills are buildings,
but the water is always water, even
when it is land. Something wavers at the opening
but closes with an almost audible thud.
Night happens in the black
part of a fire—the little spot that has offered up
all its light but not its heat, and morning
is the cold, rigid face of a coin, shining
in spite of all those dirty thumbs.
--John A. Nieves--
Crazy pink grass at the National Botanical Gardens.