By Jane Frank
You: cycling
along the laneway
beside the garden
where hundreds of mignonette lettuce grow—
two in your basket—
change jangling in your pinafore pocket
cassia trees in flower
bougainvillea climbing trellises
three stray cats watching
from a tank stand
behind the butcher shop
the yellow green of the verge
is beautiful to you:
the dust you’re raising
part of a magic of belonging
it is summer and your feet are bare
your hat has fallen on the stony path
behind but you don’t know or care
there has never been anything else
but sun really
and the effortless moving
of your legs