Hats

The sun demands
a middle way.
It sprays its love
asserting prominence
across every unclouded face.
Shade graces the noses 
of the hatted. 
It is not mad
to be a hatter.
Some plants
speak when spoken through
by the orb of every radiant 
color. Flowers, in short. 
Cacti, in length. I am 
touched, but not too 
much, under this wide-
brim day.