the grass , his flowersah , the flowersthe deciduous trees across the street , the many little lives the filled the grass , the brush , the two oaks in his back yard , other trees , the air , each emitting , each the center of a fragrant nimbus , dense at its core , ever thinning away into nothing , for feet , for yards , for blocks , overlapping , mixing , like a painting where all the colors bleed , not to obliterate the scene , but to form it .