the potted garden

in the early mornings, in the potted garden

 with tea under a crisp cerulean sky,

there are no disagreements, no sides taken,

 no poverty, no lack of soul.

there are wrens singing the live-long day,

 orioles ushering babies from limb to limb,

robins stealing raspberries off the vine.

and the monarch,

 imbibing and dancing on clover

for 12 undistracted minutes.

let the ugly world spin on its own

 in a parallel universe.

let this world,

 this world of color and song and peace,

be what fills me and calls my regard.