Wet Blades

The sudden chill of it,

cold shock, not quite

unpleasant. Each bent blade,

a small surprise, a little bite

on the sole, before the day fades.

Mail in hand, the flat

envelope. I thought of how

we build these rooms, so still, so dry,

and then step out, somehow

forgetting what was underneath the sky.

A single blade,

cool against the arch.

The way a thing can feel so sharp,

so very made

of something real, and then just warp

into a thought, leaving its mark.

The grass held onto dew.

The paper held a bill.

One, a simple kind of truth.

The other, something new

to deal with, standing very still,

and feeling the earth's cool proof.