Tu Wi’s is an imaginary poet of the S’ung Dynasty (960-1260)
 
Little suns, fallen to earth, blaze on the greening grass.
Landlords despise them, dig out their fiery pinwheels
with metal prongs, muttering words like “common”
and “weeds.”  Their notched leaves, jagged lion’s teeth.
Their sunny faces, shaggy little manes.  Old people
gather them along the roadside in early spring,
eat them in salads with hot bacon dressing
to strengthen the blood.  Or distill them in flowery wine.
But most pass them by, too usual to notice.
When they go to seed, a child’s breath or a puff
of wind sends thousands of tiny parachutes spinning.
They shall inherit the earth.

After it seemed that winter was winning,
that the ground would remain hard & white, nothing living,
spring came up to bat, laid a bunt down the third base line
and suddenly there were violets in the infield
and peepers chanting steal steal steal steal
while the sky softened to robin's egg, lamb's wool,
air like a cotton jersey on your neck,
and look, summer's up on deck
and the bases are full,
high fly ball deep deep in the tall grass
of centerfield, in the long shadows, over the fence—
it's gone.