The variegated hosta is in full swirl now,
the sight of it transporting me
back to my early childhood days
when I’d stretch out my arms,
toss back my head, and spin until I fell down,
the green of the trees spinning still,
until the scene finally came to rest.
And I would lay there in the fragrant, cool grass
watching the leaves of the cottonwoods
and poplars blow in the breeze from the bay,
and above them, white gulls soaring, their calls
cascading down through the luscious canopy
of May’s lacy unfolding green.