I was going to write about the August garden for today, but it has rained here for the past 5,000 years and the August garden is a mudpit of shame and despair, so instead, have this poem I just discovered in a computer file, in honor of the plastic dinosaur my husband unearthed in the back yard a few weeks ago:
Back then, the yard was pocked
With mammoth footprints, fossils, bones
Always a step beyond reach
Of the plastic shovel
Churning turf and soil.
Summer stretched catlike across the valley,
Somnolent as wings frozen in amber,
While live insects prickled heat to sound
And imagination did not falter
At the blue sky’s edge.
The gyre of seasons warps the weft,
Clogs the birdbath with leaves,
Sends sharp shoots lancing through
Massed bulbs of peonies
Along the fencerow.
When it rains, the past works up
Like a splinter through red clay,
The trowel catching on
A plastic hadrosaur, household god
Of a lost nation.