From here on the front step I eat cherry tomatoes
and count cars one at a time as they pass
but I never get past one in my sleepy
reverie because I want to count the bees
that buzz around me and the ants
that sniff my toes and the cracks
that lead the concrete further
and further away from me.

In my day-dreaming I amuse myself
by climbing the ladders of hosta stalks,
bud to bud, slowing my momentum
at each flower long enough
to find some minute pleasure before
jumping on to the next one
and eventually finding myself at the top
edge where the only way to continue
is to leap off entirely,
land in the dirt and begin again.

In one moment I see only cardinal
red against marsh brown
as colors begin to melt together while
sun and sky fall lower so that I think
I can count the breeze but not
by noticing the trees dancing
or any specificity.

Then a leaf, up somewhere, brought me back
with a shake and a droplet
like a nail in my head