soothed
to see
rose bushes
blooming to blot
out the wrought iron fences—
reassured
by a pinkness
like the underside
of clouds?
Not to mention—by
the sun-dried rush
of dew-sweet
petals riding
roughshod
on the warm breeze
until their scent
hits that secret spot
behind your eyes
that makes you ask:
soothed
from which particular
surreptitious
agitation, again?
Reassured (by whom)
about what?
