Reverie in Open Air

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I acknowledge my status as a stranger: 
Inappropriate clothes, odd habits 
Out of sync with wasp and wren. 
I admit I don’?t know how 
To sit still or move without purpose. 
I prefer books to moonlight, statuary to trees. 

But this lawn has been leveled for looking, 
So I kick off my sandals and walk its cool green. 
Who claims we’?re mere muscle and fluids? 
My feet are the primitives here. 
As for the rest—ah, the air now 
Is a tonic of absence, bearing nothing 
But news of a breeze.

© Rita Dove