Today, the bee bumbles. A lady whispers
to sun-stunned squirrels once more—
they listen. A whistle nearby
melts into the heat,
melts the heat: a hug so slight
goodbye isn’t in mind.
A dress’s flaring floral pattern
pedals me back to a café’s plot of pansies:
I taste a tinge of iced lemon tea
again—its wintergreen refreshes me
like May flowers. It’s June now;
people sweat out their salt
but this breeze leaves me seasoned.
A boy’s giggle matches his neon socks;
he performs a picture book
through mouth-booms, grins
spilling from constraint,
a wild percussion inside
giddying him up—how does the world
find these perfect pockets
to store this syrup of the soul?
It hums happinesses into coves
we didn’t know we held;
we have breathed an air
we cannot uncrave
permanently. Dawn is
our greatest metaphor: that child’s smile
waltzes in my mind because of it,
because it is a promise.