The metal railing warm against my hand
where sunlight silvers it, and striping cool
beneath the shade, I fully understand:
Such education doesn’t need a school.

The turn of leaves of birch upon the breeze,
that captures green as sequins prison light,
is vision comprehensible with ease:
I don’t need words from me to see it right.

But yesterday, the garden featured two
that looked like nothing else and lived one day:
A pair with scarlet spots on lemon hue,
that opened butter soft, in an array
of layered satin petals, three on one,
that blazed and then expired, with the sun.