Look deeper. The thick mass of grass tangled
under us holds more joyful mysteries
than the whole of the carnival. We seep out
of our dark apartments for freebies
and walk right past the spectacular vernacular marvels
slowly growing up around our
porch steps, surveying
from the sky, dropping
acorns and spider threads on rooftops.
Linger. Delight in the sight
of the unbelievable beautiful crafted creations
we call kids and neighbors. From our friends
to phones to steering wheels, we flit
like blind butterflies, and forget
to feel the song sung every day of the year,
through every giveaway and game
and son whispering to wake you
and sun-streak coloring the courtyard.
Listen. I was walking Nikaya to the park,
and she dropped my hand
and rolled belly-up on the grass, singing,
squinting solemnly at the bellies of the clouds,
her bread-stick arms and legs
lolled up and out to touch every tickly clover.
Finished, she bowed to her feet
and skipped to the playground.
See what she sees.