Today, while my toes flatten
dandelions into sticky
medallions, and water splatters
rhythmically upon clumps
of crabgrass, I sketch
the garden's canvas with my gaze.
Geraniums pose like children
in a Bouguereau painting,
leaning on scalloped bricks. Palms
catch sprinkler spray and vibrate
spider strands beneath the window
ledge as clouds roll like marbles
into a quiet circle of sky;
all is framed in ruddy summer--
but only the scent of a wilted rose
will draw me in.