Ivan Street

The sparrow sings its Sunday song
In loaded lemon tree
There’s no one else in this fenced yard
Just bird, tall tree and me

Though let’s not forget those reaching creepers
Usurpers of Babylon
And the bees, the pollen reapers
Who sing their own sweet song

Then those tiny, verdant shrubs
Seeking purchase in shallow dirt
And the sagging, rusty line
That holds my pegged, damp shirt

It’s so serene and peaceful, this garden awash in gold
Let fly little sparrow, serenade me
Sing loudly, sing bold


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