Reading Wordsworth

I cannot wander lonely as a cloud;
on weekends, shopping malls are crowded,
and comfort cabs are throbbing in heat.
Though schoolchildren revere
your sheep-folds, hills, summer air,
there are no daffodils dancing here.
Your nature does not pervade,
shaping neither frangipani
nor blood-heavy bougainvillaea.

Rooted in pavement under a tropical sun,
trees and lampposts stand in line
by the road. Your words are fiction
glancing off my page. Consequently,
my heart does not leap up when I behold
a rainbow in the sky, but feel out of recesses
between brick and mortar, awaiting fresh strings
of vowels, thread-ends of a new vision.