IN DISCOVERY PARK

BY SONIA GREENFIELD

The hummingbird follows me
through the park and it takes a certain
ear to hear her. You say you wish
I lived more in my body. If you call me
light-boned, I’ll try. Grass fields
and tree patches roll down to the water
in a palette of wheat tones, and the water
is a flat slate of gray that tips up
to the sky, as if the water had pivots
at each end. You wish I were less
of a looking-glass. The coin plants have gone
to seed again. How many could
I pay you to keep my heart
a little longer? A million silvered discs
pour through your fingers.