Say - A poem

Say

Say you’re sitting on a park bench listening to the wind.
Say it’s Saturday, early morning, when only those in training
for marathons or dog walking competitions are out.
Say the grey squirrels are fighting over the fallen oak nuts,
while the lone, white squirrel is spinning the remains
of an apple almost out of sight beneath a row of shrubs.
It is a nice story, isn’t it? How the sun is slathering
your weary face with a warmth you know will be gone
by morning, how the rim of your mouth still tastes
of the coffee you had before leaving home, how
no matter what you end up doing with the rest
of the day, say tend to the weeds in the garden
or argue again with the one you love over lunch,
dinner, or the last of the newspaper, there is always
this world, working as it is, if only you would see it.