Hush.

From here- tulips. 

On the window-sill, and they crane their stalk necks and their heads loll- fully blown, crepe as they live out a cut death. 

But I love them.

Against the blue of the sky, against the living green of the laurel- that shines-
that bees and wasps move in and out of.
I can see the structure of the leaves & all the hard and soft of it.

Somehow the light does not get in here, the room is dulled- I will go out. 

Under the sun- the fork of the frown between my brows, follow a slow cloud- follow the ants, greeting, busy, fast- listen to the rush of traffic- swoosh- listen to the rumble of aeroplane. 

Feel hungry- feel thirsty. 

The dear, sweet, small necessary of the day. 

So swift and right beneath a hot bright hour. 

You can marvel at a beetle folding it's wings away.

And, you can be here- then- gone.