The machine hums,
A noise far off.
Echoing in the blank branches.
Layers upon layers of the sun settle on my face.
Faint at first,
But as the pile grows,
So does the heat,
Becoming a burn of embarrassment.
On my cheeks.
The cold steel beneath the yellowed grass
Presses against my back
Gently cooling it.
It’s spring in the machine.