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Photo by Mauro Lima on Unsplash

You smoke the chops.

I nuke the broccoli

set the patio table

thankful for the gray-cloud respite,

tardy break from late-summer heat.

*

You make a face

when I sip my merlot

after rescuing a wayward fly

from the brink of napa’s plump tannins,

its claret-smooth glide.

*

We plot vacation options

ponder post-retirement timelines

laugh as puppy patrols

the perimeter path

along our black wrought iron fence.

*

You close up shop,

turn off the propane.

We debate the story arc

of Mindhunter on Netflix

we’re eager to resume.

*

We call for Coco,

I crank down the umbrella.

Dusk at this hour, still several weeks away.

You grab the peppermill.

Tummies full, we head back inside.

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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. 

*

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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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