Every morning I sit with my feet in the wet grass.
I watch the florets of the obedient plant climb the stem,
Popping out translucent purple flowers.
The black-eyed susans nearby are waning
And the tomatoes, orange and red in the garden,
Are calling to be picked.
The insects and birds chatter and chirp
As if they intended this harmony.
Patches of sunlight on the grass are harbingers
Of the hot, humid day to come.
No breeze today, but a blue sky.
All this is a gift to me because
I sit with my feet in the wet grass.
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