Dropping one by one, a field of flowers falls asleep. Each petaled member nods, moving from erect exhibition to steep drooping curve. Our botanical twilight: the lullaby a field sings to its flowers starts itself in small strokes, pinches-scatters nerves and hair. The bio-rhythm turns, though, to a sharpening of every line-- vibrations in the petal foldings, foldings-over, soft yet cruel. Put a rose to sleep with shrieking, lay a daisy down by stroking pistils sharp as nodding knives. Scatter ashes through them, blow gunpowder through their stems like fairy sleeping dust; they receive just enough shout-shrill of death to wake them, out of corporeal fear, by start of dawn.
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