EDGE OF SUMMER MIDDLE MAY
In the garden the roses are making
Up their minds as to colors and ways
They might look just after the rain.
There is a way songs begin. The problem
Is we never know when that moment is.
It usually circles around the song title
collapsing into the lyrics and winds up
Near the corner of the heart telling us
Something we already knew in a flurry
Of delight and secret code remembered
Sometimes, for the rest of our lives.
In the garden the bees are making
Their rounds, fumbling and gathering,
Finding the sweet center faster than
The Buddha did under the Bo tree,
Much much faster with no thoughts.
The sky spins by as quickly as the wind
Will allow, so beautifully arranged it
Seems random but for the birds
Outlining the edges, describing
The parameters of the day.
There is so little we remember after
All. It is only in these moments where
The garden is the world and songs are
Everywhere around us. Here is some blue.
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