The leaves when they return will conceal rubble, graffiti, and skeletal fences.
Van Gogh painted flowers that vibrate and gardens that rise up to meet you.
On the grill the hamburgers are spitting grease.
I like watching people sprint up the art museum steps pretending they're Rocky. Rocky's statue isn't at the top of the steps though; it's planted at the bottom, where people who can't or don't want to race up the steps and pump their arms in the air can still stand next to him and flex their biceps for the camera. Somewhere in those unused muscles is the strength of a boxer.
For his nephew he laid out almond blossoms on a blue background - the skies of early spring, explored by blossoms and criss-crossing branches.
In each portrait there's a story - a harlequin in a winter forest, a lady who doesn't meet your eyes, a man who is considering his profits while smoking a pipe.
Back in Halloween someone strung up a plastic skeleton outside the apartment building across the street. On New Year's Day it was still there wearing a festive hat. The hat has since disappeared, and it received nothing for Valentine's Day. Now it grins down on the street, anticipating spring like the rest of us.