by Sandra Soli

In the side garden, roses between bloom.
A few leggy petunias straggle their viney
way along, but heat snagged the fanflowers
and spider mites the marigolds.
On the porch, Julia dries her hair, looks up
through knobby knees of hackberry to catch
lambent slivers of color, a feather.
Finches? The year's shallow loop
wheels older.

Today is a dry day.
Her hair. The pantry, the bedroom dark.
In the garage, a carton of empties concealed
on a shelf behind rose food as though
they do not matter. The landscape.
Dry, dry, dry. Dry.

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