CONCURRENCE

Under the commodious shade
of a poplar, the wind
purring

indiscriminate through its
summer carapace
of leaves,

thought I could see, in broad daylight—Orion?
and The Big Dipper?
faithfully

sketched in the furtive
freckles of a tiger
lily.

The blossom, common among its
sisters, was a pure grimace
of confession—

unblinking, staring straight and 

conscientiously skyward,
it delivered,

maternally—yet very matter-of-factly 

(like an old, matronly
administrator would):

well, how did you think all these

different things around here
discovered

the one place where they all fit together? 

Whether we choose to admit it 

or not makes no difference;

the fact is we're always, 

always, always, always—

living in a neighborhood.