I am not so young that summers startle me.
No more, me sprawling under the wide sun
Simply in awe it was there: no more the free
Uninhibited flailing, once wet by a water gun.
But I’m not so old that this is old to me.
Buddleias burst with fluttering, in the gown
Of each fresh sunlight’s start, a coterie
Of admirals and cabbage whites drift down;
As it is for them, this day is new to me,
As blue and green as when this world began.
Older, perhaps: but young, enough, to see
Faces in clouds, a life in a lifespan.