Another year of rain and terrible air, then I see the street again —

this one here with a blue bucket by the curb catching water
and in it a spoiled sunflower trying to summon light,
and the engines of early delivery trucks, in chorus,
and the florist who wipes his hands on his fresh apron
after pruning, after having his fingers deep in dirt,
and the feral vines of ivy partitioning space,
and the ferns sprawling into a continuum to ward off diseases,
and the hawker who roasts chestnuts and sweet potatoes,
shrouded in smoke and specks of charcoal,
and the caterpillar hidden in a bundle of white stars,
and the violence of orchids which will last for another month,
and you, somewhere among what thrives and will surely die,
with your keen eyes and heart bright as a hibiscus, waiting.