a meadow on change

hush:
can you hear the violets
uncrunching?

All the feet have walked on.
Soft cobalt unhinges, lifts toward
that paler blue and the hot hands
of daylight, mother-like.

The shoe-made cavities are shallow, now.
By morning, nothing will be left of them.

First Appeared in The Pedestal Magazine.
Listen to this poem.