The rocks set down in the garden and the red sorrel that finds its way to unfold in sunlight  its candy-shaped blossom

and the water that flattens the grass and floods all the bugs in its path  down to the thirsty hostas and the things that fly out from that wrath  on tough little wings that look brittle

and the big colored towel of dyed cotton  with giant faces of cartoons and the frayed nylon of fold-up chairs  riveted to hollow aluminum frames

and the clouds drifting against blue and the twisting shapes of shade where secretive squirrels and birds  ply their gathering trade

and the beds of zucchini and basil  whose leaves droop in the heat and the territorial spiders and the occasional passing motors  over the hot humming road

and your soaked lashes and dripping head and your grass- and dirt-covered feet  slipping into flip-flops and the stories we read under the lamp and the insects hitting the window pane.