In concert with spring, early morning sun
opens doors for gardeners.
Coffee, bacon and wisteria fill the air.
Shady coolness sends me
to the sun side of the street.
People greet me in a salute to newness.
I walk faster and could go forever.
Deserted shops spell sleeping students.
Cafe table, muffins and a browse a book of poems -
reward for at the end of a daily walk.
Bookstores, emptied by the gardening call,
become my private library.
A stroll across campus, salute to the campanile,
soul touching chimes with lunch.
Up Euclid to dark a forest
carpeted with spring yellow green.
Flickering table sun makes
wine and bread a kingly feast.
Children play in the mud,
as parents gaze their love.
The setting sun spreads shimmer on the water.
The Golden Gate preens in the flattering light.
The sky colors from a palette of the gods,
apricot to orange to pink, then to golden.
A morality play staged to the north when
a tiny cloud tries to make a vivid statement.
I cheer for the little cloud that could,
but the beauty is window filtered,
so I step outside to feel its warmth.
As I head away from this city,
I throw a handful of fireflies toward
the Bay Bridge, lights for all.
Recently in Berkeley.