What would be my heaven? 

Trimmed grass, fresh with streaks. 

Trash cans just emptied, 

their bodies stretching shadows on asphalt. 


A swing in residue motion, 

slowing to stillness, 

its rubber seat still warm 

with a child’s joy. 


Distant voices and 

closer birds,

hushed and hastened gossip, 

circles coexisting. 


A forgotten soccer ball, 

a rusting metal bench, 

heaves of a passing jogger. 


Gradients of light 

as evening settles, 

from my parked car

around the pond’s winding walkway

through its forested trail

to the field

and back again. 

Heavy lids,

blue to a yawning grey. 


Night sounds clatter in the 

plastering dimness, 

a paradise lulled to rest.