Over at Jim’s, across the street, they are still
asleep, but the trees dazzle, blossoms
blowing in the Sunday wind. The soft
down of grass has been culled into shape,
the dandelions removed, the pansies trained
into neat little rows. Even the maple seems
to be obeying some grand design.
In the mid-day sunlight, the greens glisten,
the yellows sparkle and pop, the oranges
blaze like dying suns, the reds bleed and bleed.
I observe Nature here, in the urban garden,
a blinded muse, a bound dancer, a slave.
I am no master.
(the first word of each line is taken from This Poem)
