Act One
I exchange birdcalls with a tiny wren at perch on my fence post,
and I realize that even an approximation of the song in response
is enough to affirm our mutual existence.

Act Two
The perlite, wet from the hose water, shines bright white under the sun,
as I poke holes in the grow mix with the narrow end of an old chopstick,
to receive the roots of seedlings I transplant.

Act Three
The lilac near the porch is at full fragrance and pink-bud-color;
I am transfigured, intoxicated by this world that accommodates such aroma
and visual beauty; sadly this sensuality will dissipate and then disappear
before the week is over.

Chagall 2020