I feel more sense of the seasons here,
watching the grass green in the lot
I look out on from the kitchen sink,
which I choose to see as a field.
And it is, though a small one it’s true.
Oaks and wild grass in the spring
until they come to mow it back
for fire prevention.
The grass seems to brown over night
as we plummet into our unendurably long summer.
Green and brown are really the seasons here,
spring and fall, my favorites,
are about fifteen minutes.
Those few days when the windows
and doors stay open,
and the temperature requires no amendment.
I wish there were more of those days,
when it is easy to let the day suffice.