a bearded man
walks beside the highway    wears
a dress buttered in daisies,
fluid hem brushing shaggy calves--

is it the wet, blue light infused
with the new green of spring grass that makes
the air so achingly yellow
in springtime

the certain knowledge that your life
contains only seventeen
maybe twenty more first fields of mustard
bloomed out in their brief seconds
before summers turn the air to white,

or the memory of your head
against your mother's flowered hip,
your hand in hers at a street edge,
cars going nowhere

that made you steal that rayon shift
from your worried wife, or some woman's laundry
basket, slip inside its petals

and walk out into the morning
without a shave or shoes,
dress hugging your shallow pelvis,
wind sifting your thoughts
like dandelion seeds?