When was the last time you spent a quiet moment just doing nothing – just sitting and looking at the sea, or watching the wind blowing the tree limbs, or waves rippling on a pond, a flickering candle or children playing in the park?
Green slipped out from under the white â€“
Splashed in early other colours,
And gave up lambs, who
Bleated tirelessly on the subject.
Screams from the nearby park
Told of newly playful children, with
Bleary fathers; clattering mothers,
Undersense befuddled by a perfume â€“
It was the budding blossom.
And younger men perked up at
Early bosoms once again parading â€“
More blossom â€“ audacious blooms:
Sexual selection back on stage.
It was happening with the birds,
Only there was more decorum,
More order â€“ a greater sense of purpose;
I turned over the soil â€“ warming
Under the cautious sun â€“
Yellow still nubile,
Though coping with its shyness.
My first beads of sweat were oddly ambivalent:
Surging vigour forcing out the
Stubborn winter indolence.
Inside, a warming smile worked
Up towards my mouth, lips, eyes.
The kitchen window rattled:
Lunch was ready.
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