Today is newly born, and even so,
the dewy breath of dawn dissipates.
Gravel groans beneath my feet,
the sharp stones coughing white dust
with every step.
Hot— the sun hauls its orange glare
through the lower branches
of the cottonwoods. Already, I hunker
in the intermittent shade of their sanctuaries,
already my sleeveless blouse tacks
fabric to my back.
You would entreat a day like today, allow
sweet tea and a table fan to carve
the comforts of oasis from the porch swing,
jest about us being June bugs
dancing on a griddle.
But you died and the wind has died—
only the lax memory of a breeze
nods through the timothy
as dragonflies whir on their way
to the melodious chirp of the creek,
their wings iridescent stained glass
and as fragile.