Compassion is a verb.
     —Thich Nhat Hanh

It’s a day of startling blue, embellished,
not besmirched, by chalk-dust clouds.
In the larger world, terrible people
continue doing terrible things; careless
accidents turn ancient monuments into ash
and rubble.  But here, none of this can reach
us.  The only news is carried by the wind,
which is full of the rustle of leaves, the gossip
of bird song.  I surrender to the arms
of this metal lawn chair, secure in its embrace.
If peace is the absence of desire, then I want
nothing more than this, a day without
appointments, deadlines, agendas.  Just 
this green lawn clotted with henbit 
and the fallen suns of dandelions.  Off
in the distance, the pale surf of traffic,
the drone of bees.  And when a bluebird
lights on the nearby wire, indigo coat,
smart red vest, I think that I have won
the lottery of the sky, and nothing, not even
the black shadow of the vulture patrolling
overhead, is going to dispel this blue jubilation.