I’m on a bench at the park. The shadow around me is a tree, and I have a notebook. There’s a bush just here where bees kiss sweet white buds all over. It smells like sugar and autumn, sounds like buzz of bee, bird, and weed-eater. Women have actually gathered below me here to hula hoop together. I’m laughing. Some days afford us the sun, a breeze, just enough quiet then a phone call, invitations to enjoy and be enjoyed. Yet as I get older, I know more and more of the crumpled-heart, those who never get a fill, who labor with no fruit, the ones betrayed and bowled over.