Grandma's Garden

We relax, side by side, thinking about the birds in the trees,
about their feathers, plush little freedom devices
of green and blue, black, brown, and white,
purest white like the sun when you look at it right.
We lay in this garden, surrounded by trees
filled with leaves that hang over our heads
like spiders in their web. We are the flies,
caught under their sticky weight as we sit
in the garden and meditate on the sound
of the flowers that blow back and forth,
then sing with the birds a nice little chorus of Vivaldi.
The roses are the piano, the birds act as flutes and trumpets,
the daisies play the french horn,
and the iris slowly draws the bow across the cello's strings.
Together, my grandmother and I listen,
with our eyes closed and minds awake.