It wouldn’t surprise me
if some of this number
making their way
past our resting elbows
are beginning to lose faith,
what with summer wind 
gusting so wildly 
through the long grass,
sounding like a sea 
preparing to part itself.
What's to stop one or two
falling behind the rest?
Forsaking the promise 
of what may come
to idle away this earthly afternoon
sheltering in the shade 
of a dandelion,
the fallen bottle cap
or the marble temple
of your outstretched arm?