When my husband and I walk back up the bike path
near our house, midday in June, on one side green
grasses and pink-and-white clover so delicious-looking
I can’t believe a thousand bees haven’t settled in,
on the other side a stream of cars and trucks, a rush
so noisy we can’t chat, people hurtling to places
I’m glad I don’t have to go, past a yellow tree
I don’t know the name of but it’s in bloom,
like tiger swallowtails amid the leaves, then
we round our corner and pass a front yard sale
where a small blond girl sits at a table with a cookie tin,
an ice chest at her feet, I bet selling lemonade and treats
to people who go garage-saling on a warm June day
but we don’t stop, my mind’s pacing with my feet,
I’m like Ross Gay, buzzing with imaginary bees
and delight, so when we open our door
and turn on the attic fan I go straight to my laptop
and write this poem before we have lunch, despite
my stomach’s rumbling, at least words are juicy, I’ll add
capers to our salad and we’ll sit out on the back porch
with cold green tea and feel the breeze.