Ramdas Ware, "Garden"
The sky’s bleached from the heat; its radiance melts asphalt, making licorice ridges where the curb joins the edge of the road. The earth’s dipped a shoulder towards the star that keeps her in its thrall, and it’s the season when we small children clinging atop her broad curve will burn. A million million times we’ve tugged on her, tantruming red-faced: “give me! give me!” and she’s indulged us, bringing clover to bloom in spring rain, letting us suck nectar from its florets. We forget how our tarry gravel roads make her itch, and the same shoulder tilted towards the sun could shrug us off, our bones calcined to feed her flowers.