Last spring, before retirement,

I dashed out the door daily,

driving to my windowless work space

Once there, I loved reading and writing

with seventh grade students,

chatting with colleagues during hall change

but on the way from my front door

to my classroom door

Envy rode my stiff shoulders

like a green snake curled on a rock

I passed Neighbors walking their dogs

with meandering ease

my poor dog having been dragged out

to do her business before daylight

Heaven forbid I pass a neighbor sipping coffee

on her porch

while my coffee, hastily Keuriged,

was destined to go cold on the corner of my teacher desk

I dreamed, while I drove,

of a slow morning start

a long morning walk

time to notice dozens of anthills

constructed, in sidewalk cracks,

by the hardworking insect nightshift

time to slow down and feel the tap tap

of a low-hanging dogwood branch

arcing over the sidewalk

barely ruffling the top of my hair

as if I were a stray

temperament untested

but still deserving a gentle pat

Time to pause and study the huddle

of white capped mushrooms

heads bent

looking (for the world) like tourists

conferring over a map of area attractions

time to listen, unnoticed, to a woman two streets over

wearing her gardening hat

I. Don’t. Want. To. Rake. Over. The. Blue. Plants!

Her words the staccato rhythm of warning

Her husband’s reply

a sharp blast of the leaf blower

perhaps yard work will be their therapy today

Perhaps not

time to wonder how I missed the neighborhood memo

plant purple phlox

gaudy in its beauty

flanking brick mailboxes

flaunting its spring wardrobe from newly-mulched garden beds

time to wonder at a little hillock covered with dandelions

some still yellow blots against the grass, a child’s drawing of sunshine

others gone to seed, floating on thick stems, whimsical white clouds

Time to wave to to young mother washing her car

the hose coiled in the driveway

the spray nozzle aimed at her long-suffering floormats

rivulets running toward the sidewalk

no doubt laced with traces of gatorade

and cheerio dust

time to pause and acknowledge the cluster of trees

I call the five sisters, their roots and limbs

inextricably tangled

alternately leaning in and crowding out

sometimes supporting, sometimes stunting

time to spy with my little eye a splotch of wild purple violets

while I watch,

one lighter than the rest rises

a butterfly,

causing my heart to lift

in awe and imitation of its

tender petal-wings