the truth is shy. i’ve known it since a boy:
it’s still and hidden in the longing grass –
it can’t be lured by noise, or guileful ploy;
a marker, and a silence, that we pass.

for summer knows the aching in our thoughts —
the restlessness that breaks out of our eyes,
the vanity in those who call the shots,
the infamy of those who dress up lies.

yet, out there in the grass, is hidden still
a humbleness, contentedness, intent
on showing who we are, and where we will
be, if we see the message that is meant

for us to see and live and grow around —
but truth is shy: it can be shouted down.