An Altar

I sat at my table
and loved its surface.
Its scratches,
the way it shoogled
and didn’t shine
in the sun.

Distant sounds
of the 12
to the West End.
Thoughts stuck
in my bones.

But I was under
the buddleia,
beneath the sky.
The song of a wren,

The grass grew
up to my shoulders.
And noticing
instilled in me
spring’s possibilities.