A breather

I sit down, for my ten minutes to stare
To exhale, to inhale, to recall what it means to breathe.
Like those perfect pictures on the computer,
The glossy photo that my mind's captured is crystal clear.
The lush leaves are a still green
As still as the air that’s also stopped to take a breath.
The chameleon is resting on the branch frozen,
Gulping meaningfully, turning from green to brownish red.
It's sliver of a pink tongue pops in and out,
What is its true nature?
Just boringly passive or deeply lascivious?
Butterflies flit inconspicuously
Sipping elegantly at pink liqueur
With the mildest of flutters, they move around the Ixora
From one perfect posy to the other.
The fragrance of the different jasmine reaches me gently
From the fat buds in the shrubs
And from the slim delicate blooms over the creepers
Their scents sharp, delicate and heavy
Makes me quite heady at this instant state of bliss.
The forest bird hidden high in the trees calls out,
Pleading to be heard and then appears
Flying low against an oppressive dull sky.
Those leaves meanwhile are still held in suspense
Any minute I expect background music
And the hushed tones of David Attenborough,
Talking about nature's own soap opera.
Then, from somewhere
Buzzing ever so quietly,
A dozen dragonflies appear above the wall
Suspended, portentous,
I look, and am compelled to receive a subliminal message
I acknowledge, accept, my ten minutes are up.