Again, the ripe rose heads
crowd each bush we’d thought dead.
A blushing sun spills over
vines heavy with tomatoes
too sweet to believe. Bodies
answering what we’ve asked of them
making effervescent our longing.
Peeled peaches, marigolds,
honeysuckle, sliced lemon –
sucking from the last of these
honeyed days, we believe in blue heat,
in bees. Burning with bliss,
kicking up the light in a best dress,
jittery, justified–long will this last.
Another harvest sweeps us
into a heap of glee
gives us wings and a humming song
that won’t set, not soon,
not yet.