Humidity surprises the Adirondacks,
undaunted though this pod of bikers
barreling past my house; a Lycra procession
bright as poisonous frogs. But me, on my
hands and knees planting tomatoes, a stupor
of basil in little green rows. I stand and brush
the soil crumpled from my jeans, squint
and wave the midges face-free. This would
normally mean one beer then two. A third
feet up and splayed on the front porch. I'd
admire the twisting sky, the way heat colors
the clouds like blood filling a syringe. Then
early evening with its strange perfumes and
flowers trembled into shadow. I'd crack
number four while searing meat, cast iron
smoking like summer pavement. Number
five around the dinner table, the usual
questions of how was your day, dad, how
was your day. The couch with number six
as my children begin their long climb to bed,
the stories I don't tell of heroes and nymphs,
a rain of stars. But instead today I chug
the garden hose, wipe my mouth. I take
a long cool shower and close my eyes.
Then a quiet porch and present dinner.
At bedtime, I skooch between my girls
and describe brave oceans, warrior crows,
a magic trumpet that forgives its player
of every wrong choice. As finale, I explain
a fox has taken to visiting our garden, and in
the coiled dark, box fan tumbling moonlight
onto the bed, I say he's merely looking
for something he's lost, the soft arrow--
head of his face gentle between
the tomatoes as he sniffs and moves,
separating dark from bush, bush from light.
Photo: Tammy Grimes, Picspree.
