You want to walk on words
in sidewalk slabs
(the way you can
in cities with names
that begin with “saint”)
and seek shade
beneath a purple
leaf plum tree.
You say hi to a man
with low vision
just beyond a park bench
placed in a clearing
surrounded by wild
flowers gone wild. You
want to believe he sees
beyond. You
want to ask him
if he thinks summer
might have become too full
of life—thick
with a palette
of too many shades
of green. You want
to know who else loves
winter because you get
to stay awake
while others sleep.
Get to pretend
to be dead. You want
the robins to know
when you see
a hammock smile,
you smile back.
You want to pause
before an abundance
of silver mound
in a front yard garden
where the sidewalk bleeds
and bends into the parkway
trail. You want to ask
the duck in the foreground
if it sees
the perfectly framed
row of rose-colored tall grass
before a row of taller prairie
reeds before the lake
too. You want to join
the big black floppy dog
that swims in each
of the seven pools.
Instead, you spin
the stem to a velvety
wine-colored leaf
between your thumb
and index finger.