Drought

=  =  Siberian iris won’t bloom this year. Love keeps knocking its head on the pots & pans dangling from the ceiling of patience. Woodpeckers spiral up the trunk of the pine like bindweed, & the grackles don’t know why they’re angry. A man who’s choking excuses himself from the table & never comes back. Every stone is ancient compared to me. The silk shirt my wife gave me feels like jazz on my skin, like the big orange poppy with a dark red center. My daughter grows breasts & smiles through her braces. Her face is a new sun, & the boys begin their orbits. In a breeze the petals close like hands cupping a flame. The jawline of a woman. Pompeii. Juno’s daughter, rising from the sea. My wife drops her shoes & slips her feet in. Gravity’s mother has let go of everything & that is love. Beyond the fence, bindweed & thistle wrestle like Hindu gods. Whoever thought of a guitar made of steel? Chaucer would love these bearded iris. What’s that paper crackling in my pocket? A receipt? Yes--a love note from my wife. Aspen leaves flutter from their slender wrists. Love is patient, and knocks again.