The Garden (for Angie)
by Aaron Glover

Words grow leaner now,
late summer heat leaves no time
for efforts of excess; there is only
the writing and the weather
neither shows signs of relenting.

The heat is not unfriendly,
not the southern summer sun
that blazes living things, baptism
by baking, the clay beings
growing brittle and hard,
the grass unloving;
no, this sun shines without menace
but constant.

How many hours? They buzz
like the simple tempest of gnats
outside the screen porch, a great sum
impossible to capture singly:
so many words here, the A/C kicks on,
another paragraph, the clock in the den
strikes one, goodness was that
my stomach?

Washing the tomato from the yard
for lunch, looking out into midday
the garden lays open, pages still,
a bee alighting from thought
to thought, deep in pleasure’s task.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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