It's Still Life

Eyes Closed, Garden

sensory mapping
it’s a new way of seeing.
eyes closed.

flagstones, rough through the soles.
the first before the first is loose.
then three.
then level — eight even paces.
four steps up.
grass.

lavender,
a breath from my right,
held high.

the birdbath beyond
fuller than yesterday.
rain speaks in levels.

I map the morning in scent:
apple blossom; April wind,
Cox and Discovery,
laurel, lilac,
yes, the rose.

greenhouse.

not glass
but what it holds:
soil still remembering
last year’s tomatoes,
faint ghosts of cucumber vine,
green, bitter-sweet.

staying in its dark
even now …that scent,
waiting.

stop.

here.

the place I might fall.

the air shifts
warmer.

I hear green again
but softer here,
as if it’s thinking.

spring opens its throat to
blackbird, finch,
and the crow
I know.

my tulips, still no scent.

and then
light,
not seen
but entering

as if the eyes
remember
before I open them.

Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for April 2026. Prompt word: New