Sonnet to concrete

What comes after Winter’s fearful whip? 
Tell, what gives sway to summer scented sage? 
To what gives imagination’s muses blush? 
The forest’s bloom green, the bee’s nectar rush? 

What book can tell? Aye, what poet can say? 
My naked toes, pressed on what Earth has sung. 
Burning from the warmth, on which Sun has hung 
Her shooting fires to make human pyres! 

‘Tis not the thrush, nor the greenery that 
Gives summer sway, ‘tis the flat concrete stair,  
Mirroring Earth’s light, book pages that glare 
Soft white, too harsh for mine own squinting eyes.