Circles

It starts with the sky a uniform blue.
You inhale deeply,
bringing the green out of the long-brown grass,
drawing up the new sprouts between the blades,
bloating the plums trees into a puffy white,
pulling out all the sweet scents into the air,
nudging people to shed their heavy clothes and their houses,
turning the volume up on birdsong,
wringing the frigid from the sea,
which rises into the warm air,
birthing a mist which smudges the sun into a yellow thumbprint.
And the cool returns...



On the turntable: Wings, "Venus and Mars"
On the nighttable: William Nicholson, "The Society of Others"