Nothing about the grass or what kind of green it could be elsewhere. Nothing about bad apples, children picked out of the dustbin; calendar pages to turn until you came to the page marked I told you so. If you could, you'd tell your body instead to think of how heat, as it rises, can polish the air. How one day the burned fields grow back somehow, even if you leave them. A leaf can still be tender; fruit cannot help but push out seed.