A man shovels in a parking lot

for a car supposedly there

but the car so loves its burial

he gives up and goes,

engulfed in swan’s down, Florentin swirls,

the ticker tape of heaven.

Wrought iron fences present a knee-high

height to the fallible eye. To sparse trees comes

a minimal spring, precise and oriental:

there blooms here, five there,

birds brown and blood red.

Bricks mimic their mortar, shingles show

as if newly cut. Traffic? What is traffic?

People? There are no people.

The ornate wind, thousand-flaked, leaps from

building to building. Softly, the neighborhood alters

to a mock Siberian scene,

comic and beautiful,

capped with repeated conical hats.

Good people, kept home today

from your various jobs, look out your windows,

grasp this scene that offers

some metaphor for love:

simplicity in a deepening world.