barefoot, I roam the ground of my grandmother’s garden
skipping through patches of wet soil and grass,
over the oak’s roots and fallen leaves,
I land near cracked pots, succulents
soaking in generous sunlight
in their stillest beauty, a delicate sight

doves sing and bugs whirr,
the windchimes’ ballads travel to where I sit/sway
sticky on the wooden rocking chair as
watermelon juice spills over my blouse
in anticipation for the next full bite

and as I sway and wander the nothingness and
blow seeds of dandelions into the air,
a moment flies by;
the silenced hum of the dragonfly
which surrenders her wings to the warming breeze
gracefully descends to her
stillest death, perfect[embracing] and light