Summer Yard



behind the clean elastic

worm, mounding for the muffled

mole, this block of

dirt with rock ribs bulking

hard beneath, and if you lean

your head to them—a breathing;

blast of hosed water bright and

bold, brimming above the child’s

square candid head, streaming

down the bare resounding belly to

circle round toes buttoned in the

mud, steaming up the ditches; blue

white tapered supper egg eased

out from under the


hen, her cool breast springy

with slick pink-spined

feathers; tomatoes, just

one fitting to a palm,

aromatic, with juices

moving beads beneath the

skin, heavy, tangy, tawny,



to the touch—Who gave us so much?