The sprouting grass is soft beneath my feet,
receptive, squeaky-vivid, bending, bright.
And gentle is the asphalt of the street
I walk across, ignoring every sight.
The air is like a washcloth on my brow,
my cheeks, my throat: that cool and slick and clean.
The sounds of birds and garbage trucks allow
a silence to be heard: a pause between.

I almost close my eyes and take the sun
red-brown and warm as comfort through my lids.
The gardens overwhelm me; every one
is color-crowded; gaudiness forbids
me to enjoy this as it well deserves.
I shut my eyes to open other nerves.