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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

*

dappled sunlight augments the subtle splendor

of a simple garden pond —

its lovely waters, a simmering hot-bed

of potentialities

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heat-dome blues

highs topping out

*

in the danger zone,

trapping hot, HOT air

*

blocking relief

from wind & rain

*

and don’t get me started

on this gosh-dang humidity

*

and people wonder

why I hate summer

*

yours sincerely,

patiently waiting for fall

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tendering the garden

both florals and greenery,

water bearing, fertilizing

observing gentle

growth with fascination & love

*

deadheading the spent blooms —

gray-bearded celosias,

desiccated calendula,

withered zinnias,

those faded sunflowers

*

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

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Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

I woke with aplomb,

having survived my sixty-ninth

4th of July.

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this was a jaded, unruly one

given the angry, restless mood

of the country,

this hot, humid summer of 2026.

*

today, I enjoyed the ripe juiciness

of a Colorado peach,

sipped hot tea at our sun-drenched

*

kitchen table, a cadre of watercolor

paints close at hand,

the gentle touch of my husband’s

fingers massaging my neck,

*

our furry companion watching us

with an agreeable look

of contentment on his sweet little face.

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because we have no screens

on our sunroom windows,

I cranked open

the casement glass

following the morning’s

burst of much-needed rain

so that I could enjoy —

with a hot cup of tea in my hand —

a freshet of storm-cleared air

as I patiently waited for

the next rumble of thunder

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lined up along the baseboards,

tucked behind the swivel rocker,

crammed into plastic crates,

neatly aligned in the four corners

of our coffee table —

yes! my shelves runneth over,

stacks & stockpiles of books

some I might not ever read, it’s true

(but they’re there for the taking)

there’s always one or two

in my Amazon cart

but, no matter —

I relish every possibility!