there are tended
trailing roses in the gardens
but the herbs stand ready by the road.

braiding buds of undefined hue
through buttonholes, in plaits,
praying woody sprigs between the palms.

from this sidewalk bounty
they take the morning
in a litany of scents.

seascapes captured
in stucco and glass.
portraits of nature
with no wild grass.

a quiet life founded
and bound to this block
where few can afford
a home or a rock.

"They couldn't find their way home."
the man on the bench chants to anypassingone.
in the hollow across the way
a brass band is playing.
notes made visible by gathering smoke.
that mother this child
swing-dancing to the mid-day improvisers.
and on a flat dirt road
not quite near to here
a soloist jives to a separate tune.