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.