looks more rich: grass
fashioned from emerald, tulips
from velvet.

Slinky pink worms festoon
the pavement like live icing
escaped from an ornate cake.

Finches sing more
complex melodies.

After a rain, no one
understands the mythic flux
of tiny kernels below ground—
grains hard as pebbles—into blooms,
into thickets, into forests:
that percussion of giants
which looms leafily over our heads
and feeds us and shades us—

that maybe all it takes
to arrive at hugeness—this wash
of wet, this strike of star,
this depth of drenched dirt.