Milk and butter,
a flowing flower carpet unwinds
beneath confidently stumbling tread.

The sky’s gentle breath
pulls without pushing,
draws unsnagging ribbons on our backs
and the late-year snow
tumbles pinkly past.

Far off, just yards away,
a clashing train leaves no trace
on our echoless play.

In this suburban church of grass,
where mass is mumbled by creaking swings,
which rings with peals of bicycle bells,
we pass our time
and the daisy-days chain in humming haze
to summer’s drowsing laze.