Four Again

When I was a child I would stick my whole face in the garden,
Surrounded by color and green and perfume, I would become lost,
not a viewer of the garden, but part of it, immersed
in the impressionist beauty, part of the painting.

Part of the tragedy of growing up is decorum.
Gardens it seems, are meant to be viewed at a distance,
taking in the line and color from a tea party chair,
sniffing, if you are the sensitive type, one flower at a time.

Screw that.

The next time you are in the town square,
I’ll be the strange old guy with his face in the flowers,
breathing deep as a zen master, suddenly and happily
four again.