What comes, comes. An upstart park alongside a sidewalk witnesses up-shoots of the spring, an urbanscape where a cluster, itself, of daffodils in yellow constitutes awe.
In the shuffle to find a purpose, as the sun spills onto a clear pond, slapping us awake to confront or present or simply be,
that bright yoke flashes in the moment, the madly artificial gone.
No business of ours anyway how business goes when the body is going in its turn in tune with its life's own hum.