I’m about to pass a patch of perfection,
a carpet of green, verdant –
I want to choke bunches of it
between my toes.
Such an infinite day, Spring.
Every year, reliable – more so, even,
than the rising price of gold.
Someone’s baby sister and her bff lounge.
Baby sister says something about bees
and planting a kiss on a solitary dandelion,
a jaunty bee-fed button, not worried
about the bug’s ever ready stinger.
Bff hums along to her iPod, but I
can’t tell if the mp3 is about new seasons.
Baby sister shares a secret and a dream
and a priceless piece of nonsense.
I wander on, out of earshot, not knowing
if bff answered but knowing
a new thing or two about Spring.