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Photo by Carrie Borden on Unsplash

Claude Monet painted a series of more than 250 water lily paintings,

a major tenet of his work the last 31 years of his life.

He so loved his water lilies, gardeners rowed a small boat each morning,

out to the middle of a pond, just to dust and clean them, per his bidding. 

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three twigs neatly arranged beneath the dash,

carefully aligned between accelerator and brake

urine-filled pop cans and bottles

hidden in closet crevices, those darkest of corners

fears of a lover’s demise during the night,

vibrating alarms allow silent sentry 

doors locked & unlatched, locked & unlatched

in an exasperating repetition of senseless obsession

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dappled sunlight augments the subtle splendor

of a simple garden pond —

its lovely waters, a simmering hot-bed

of potentialities

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I heard the year’s first cicada yesterday.

its tell-tale whirs and clicks made me smile.

this morning, I found an abandoned husk

clinging to the underside branch of our pear tree,

remnant of what I’d discerned the day before.

the sights and sounds of the locust horde —

bearing witness to summer’s tumble toward autumn

as the seasons circle round, as they always do.

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heat-dome blues

highs topping out

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in the danger zone,

trapping hot, HOT air

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blocking relief

from wind & rain

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and don’t get me started

on this gosh-dang humidity

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and people wonder

why I hate summer

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yours sincerely,

patiently waiting for fall

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the witch’s teat runs dry.

her stippled alabaster skin,

tinges of greenish gray.

she howls in echoed cadence

with a waning gibbous moon,

her thirst for retribution

unquenchable.

village folk and all who toil

late into the dark of night

or beneath the blazing heat

of a cruel sun in resistant fields,

those who tirelessly tend

to cattle, sheep and fowl,

those who bleed and sweat

and endure many hardships,

those who strive to protect

their families & keep them safe, fed

and sheltered from storm —

there are some who embrace her magic.

and yet, there are none of these fools

who do not, will not yield to her charms.

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I’m doing battle

with leatherwings

and Japanese beetles

this summer.

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both are annoying invaders

to my patio of serenity,

my colorful array of florals.

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one loathsome creature,

a dahlia destroyer,

happily munches away

on my emerging blooms.

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the other is a bug

I’m told is beneficial to gardens

though I find their massive numbers

exasperating as they

fly into my hair,

cling to my clothing,

forever hovering, hovering.

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they’re everywhere!

it’s all so very distasteful & annoying.

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blech!!

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curiously, both insects’

vibrant markings

are quite beautiful,

I cannot fault

their appearance.

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it’s their very existence

in my garden that I detest!

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tendering the garden

both florals and greenery,

water bearing, fertilizing

observing gentle

growth with fascination & love

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deadheading the spent blooms —

gray-bearded celosias,

desiccated calendula,

withered zinnias,

those faded sunflowers

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choppy haircuts & trims,

cheery encouragements to blossom

even bushier, fuller, more flowery

than ever before

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strolling the meadow, the sun all a-glory,

she is adrift in a cascade of sorrel,

cardinal flower and buttercup

in the near distance, just along the waterline,

the lush brown of fatted cattails

tumble in the breeze

thoughts of gratitude leisurely

make themselves known,

beacons of intent in her mind’s eye

punctuating the warm sultry air