you
for whom everything is certain
brush through the late spring
with the eager disinterest of a spaniel
stealing sandwiches from a stranger's picnic

you
do not notice these ferns
curled around in turning cartwheel
fingers held in buddhist contemplation
of shared energy of the body

you
want to know why I am interested
in these plants immemorial
that have not been mentioned
in this week's newspaper opinions

you
bring a book next time we walk
to refute my claims
of greatness
for the leaves now spread