if any, repose in grass this Junedried wheat tufts suggest autumn.Illusion of time: the view towards towntwenty years ago the same, one thinks,the viewer changed but held, closeto hope, still doubting that green is onlymade in the retina.                                                    My son paints Winsor's Green(Light) on Strathmore paper because it isthat way, and the world less doubtfulthan one's thought of it—withoutwhich it isn't . . .                                  says who? Consciousnessis cellular, says Teilhard, in caseone should forget to bid the swatted cockroachto become buddha.                                                   Aggression won'tsupply green. And could photosynthesisproduce ink for the poet's randomness whichhardly frames art, that neurosis skewingacceptance?                                Getting old? Well, resistthat thought as a reflex fed by newsprint.But the physical transfixes an internalmetaphysical fear: sooner to dierather than later, as this cinquefoil's brightyellow fades, and the chickadeewho sits on my boot-tip is surely not last year's.Some fat chipmunk, however, stealsbirdseed from the finches, and no interveninghelps. Five droplets out of an overheadcloudpuff threaten this page unpreventablyas the helpless face of any womancrossing 23^rd street at Second Avenueto think a boon might come from bodiesof students shot in Tiananmen Square.                                                                                      Logicwon't de-corrupt governments, exceptwhere a word properly lodges its depthin the fluidity of things, which have a wayof constancy in greens of varyinggrays—Payne's Light, for instance, for rocksthat stay mostly unseen, and yet crop outholding landscape, or land-thoughtresembling it, enough to wake you, caught outin metaphysical blur—self-doubt, as ifgood were invisible. Wake you to get up and walk.