Even now, the nasturtiums— rinsed
clean, bright-eyed; attending
to the sun. 

Do you not see it this way?
Does the music stop
just here, the swoon –

crabbed leaves
scuttling down the walk
and the squirrel perched like

peace on the front porch? 
Look here:

the iris leaves are
sharpening their blades
against the sky –

Do you not feel them? 

Can you not trace
the slow and tender
cleaving of your chest?