The rocks set down in the garden
and the red sorrel that finds its way
to unfold in sunlight
 its candy-shaped blossom

and the water that flattens the grass
and floods all the bugs in its path
 down to the thirsty hostas
and the things that fly out from that wrath
 on tough little wings that look brittle

and the big colored towel of dyed cotton
 with giant faces of cartoons
and the frayed nylon of fold-up chairs
 riveted to hollow aluminum frames

and the clouds drifting against blue
and the twisting shapes of shade
where secretive squirrels and birds
 ply their gathering trade

and the beds of zucchini and basil
 whose leaves droop in the heat
and the territorial spiders
and the occasional passing motors
 over the hot humming road

and your soaked lashes and dripping head
and your grass- and dirt-covered feet
 slipping into flip-flops
and the stories we read under the lamp
and the insects hitting the window pane.