One cannot have a tidy garden and travel midsummer,
so it is overgrown like
unwashed hair, thick and matted.
Like something tightly wound, suddenly released,
the weeds burst forth into a jungle for small children, groundhogs and moles.
Wild grasses, thistles, even locust trees root themselves
between the Amish pastes and brandy wines.
and the sun bakes what is left in its lurches.
I find myself writing: the burn of the sun on your skin,
even for a minute, feels like a forest fire on the flesh.
Melodramatic, perhaps, but it is the first summer I can tangibly measure the earth’s warming
by the sensation of heat against my largest organ.
Finally the sky opens up at various intervals.
A teaser trickle of rain,
a heavy luminous smoky grey poof skirts the sky like a misshapen snake,
and then things go black when the sun has long set
and sparks of lightening come one after the other like fire bursts.
swirls of neon lights,
eight of twelve at once
carve holes into poppy capsules,
Adorned with sea-green pearls,
the asparagus stalks become thin pine trees
possessed by wind
topple over with the height of their flimsy stilt bodies.
The one in lavish red pearls (I learn) is the only female
among a tribe of males.