The Garden

Summertime is here
Hot, smog, humid, lungs take a beating
Sweet leaf burning, lungs now healing
Sitting on a three-man bench
Feeling like a critic
“Okay, and stop.”
Narrow path with grass everywhere
Wind sways, makes floor wavy
The fountain's near the bud tree
Near the mushroom trees
In autumn the bud ripens
Ready to pick, harvest time
Brown and orange hair
Stuck to the bench, can't move
No reason to
Winter hinders our outdoor time
Not for long
Time jets
Time slows for now
The bud tree leans over to the fountain
Which is now a waterpipe
It disappears over time
Then we look up
At the cathedral
Between and through
The leafless trees
What a rocket
And our spirits are lifted