Apricot Press

Cooler nights, the morning's moister & our plants thaw more vividly,
remembering that it's summer & that there is glory in their hues.

I can pray on the names of every blade in this paradise.
Salvia. Hydrangea. Impatience.
I can place faith even on seeds whose blooms rise
identified no longer.

Does god pan this setting, our fenced-in yard
of verdigris sills & muted rainbow slates
aerial as an Eiffel view from the spiral stairs,
or Florentine where the miniature David statue stands
on his shrine of marble?

When we take siestas here we are Pre-Raphaelite.
When we wake arias start teeming from the hand-planted visions.

Once, mole-blind, hungering, we fed on such hope
of what a garden would mean. It made dreams edible,
imbued nurturance enough through rented rooms
or so prayers told us.

Now, a tapestry, peppers, tomatoes turn as antennae on the air,
seeking only light & water. We too, amid the sirens & squads
on the other side of these ephemeral vines.

Photo credit: Tom Jur