The first mowing of the year floats a hint
of sweet fescue and wild onion my way, turns

the yard into green velveteen.  I am lazing
on my weathered wooden swing, strung

between two mulberry trees.  Here, at the edge
of our property, rivulets of violets and tiny

white wildflowers crisscross the grass.  I sway
right above their low-growing grace and watch

a honey bee tiptoe over the yellow meadow
of a dandelion, culling the nectar.  It flies off, raising

my gaze to the latticework of tenderly budded
branches draped around me.  Through this natural

screen, redbud blossoms flicker their rose hues.
Flash of sun, unblemished backsplash of blue sky.

All this color, its brilliant indifference, measures
me: I am just a drop of pale imperfection.