Is It Called Sedge?

Is it called sedge? That weed that waxes golden

and looks like a poor man’s excuse for wheat,

part straw, and part grass, pouring feathery seeds

into the heat hazed sky. It waved like wheat the fall

Heather and Jessica turned their cartwheels.

Legs bent, schoolbooks strewn across

the field, they were awkward circles, full of yearling flailing —

elbows like daggers—bones for knees, hair dragging

in the dirt. Those cartwheels went on and on into the molting

grass of autumn. Their cartwheels made the turning of the crescent

through harvest stars. A way to move without walking,

spinning satellites, of inelegant flesh, and little girl growing.

They cart wheeled all the way to B.J.’s house across the sedge,

across my heart's remembering.