Outside we watch tender lime
leaves unfurl, new life.
A small hand reaches for
the copper-threaded can, pours
cold water right from the hose,
trailing droplets along
cornflower-colored morning glories—
although they are shuttered by now,
closed for business.
Their vines never shudder or recede,
rather seeking space within
vinyl, searching under siding,
always climbing
taller and
longer as if
they, too, want to enter
the house, a refuge from
August humidity but not
from sound or shrieks.
Kids fighting and tricycles
c a r e e n i n g
across tan tiles,
the grout porous and green
as if it, too, is photosynthesizing.
A jungle of the domestic—
as a mother I’ve learned
the contours of the seasons.
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