I didn’t find bugs before.
I didn’t take in leaves, branches, blooms
in front of Windows,
beside the roads.
I didn’t know squirrels before or
didn’t watch daily theatrics of crows, chickadees, hawks
unfold in front lawn branches.
I didn’t nod
along to rhythms
of my neighborhood, relying on changing sounds
of outside to keep time.
I didn’t smell
buds of spring, each a different sweet.
I didn’t taste air, my palate
distinguishing flavors – savory petrichor, sour humidity.
I didn’t feel weight of hugs,
electricity of high-fives,
snap of kissed cheeks.