August at green: the growth
chokes the garden, and a light rain
presses its benediction onto the plants.
I watch the wind disguise
the vegetable stasis, the still green chorus
of the world. “—the inadequate
summer that we cultivate.” I sit
in the shadow of myself, and write
Beneath the dripping roof, one bright
leaf jumps vigorously, jumps and bobs.
The drops hit it and it rights itself.