Sitting still, sitting quietly, not doing anything, and the grass grows by itself.

Spring is like a perhaps hand
by E.E. Cummings

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window, into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

I know this is out of season, but it's lovely nevertheless, isn't it? The composition of the poem is beautifully rhythmical.