It's the spring time,
more domestic than elegant, leaves and pigeons
evading the stony path for the adolescences and sparrows.
White clouds are forming and reforming above
the river and the distant town,
The outhouse roof sags, the field overgrown with flowers
halting the river's march.
Parts of it a marsh, where the ponds spill over
the usual passages, the ordinary sounds,
The length of the sidewalk I am trying
to hold on the moment avoiding the bleachers,
against the backdrop of time and space.
Pigeons ducking the benches
where the bulbul rustling in sleep
The garden witnesses the love and then
the hollow that comes after the warmth of tête-á-tête.