There is no isolation.
Perched amid salvias,
parsley, dill, boreč, and nettles,
between two large volunteer dandelions,
some alliums coming into flower,
the ever-prolific mint,
the corner astilbe,
rosemaries of course,
all the thymes,
the lonely fern,
violets, primulas, and corydalis
clovers running through,
bird’s foot, alfalfa, phacelia,
buckwheat, blueweed, rapeseed,
lettuce, rocket, and spinach,
some other salad greens,
the bowl of billowing sempervivums,
sprouting amaranth, poppy, corn- and sunflowers,
the tiny and the dwarf lemon, the fig, the bay tree,
in cracks mostly mosses,
with some grasses here and there,
the ones yet to come, planted,
planned, imagined, desired,
like plenty of basils, the odd pepper,
two zucchinis again, I guess,
some snow peas, runner beans,
and sweet potatoes for height,
a thornless blackberry bush,
a taller bush for dappled shade,
maybe a buddleja,
or an amelanchier,
or even a hazel,
under hastily moving strata,
revealing and hiding the late Aprils sun
on the narrow south-facing terrace
of our rooftop rental.
A gust of wind just separated
a thick cloud of pollen from the nearby spruce.
The surrounding maples are in bloom as well.
Tiny grains under my fingertips and on the screen.
The only writing I still get done
is in full sun.