Standing yards above the buckeye slopes of the fault,
we are unlike earthquakes. Halfway in between
equinox and solstice, we gather this morning,
children and parents.

In a parting of wildflowers, we lean together,
plunge a pole of bamboo into the dirt and weave
raveled cotton steamers, sing and dance to ring
in the sun with a bell that has no clapper,

So suspended in this latest sandstorm of love—
a million particles— we lift our eyes,
listening to the colors of its heat.