Leaves have sprouted and trees have branched out.
Buds turn into tiny knots and swirls.
Roses, lilies and daisies burst and sway to winds on the spring fields.
Goats bleat and horses toot and trot.

It's May.
An evening cool wraps my porch and the sun scorches its railings.

A dozen asparagus sizzle on a pan. A minute passes by.
A sour, acidic and tangy lemon vinaigrette splashes,
and pools. Mellows when the sweet drop of butter melds with it,
perks up when the ground pepper dots its trunk.

I stick a fork and cut it.
Into tiny cylinders of green, white, creamish yellow.

I bite into it and it crunches under the weight of my teeth.
My tongue clicks and my right eye scrunches.
With the flick of a switch I sink into a state of tranquility.
The sun sets in front of me and I smile.

I never knew what an Asparagus could be,
but I love it for what it does to me.