June

The sun stays past supper,
Gold bike spokes rest on clovers
Gold porches
gold fences
One last-at-bat

“do I have to?”

Sprinklers tick tick
And clean
dusted knees.


Mower rows lie warm and sweet, 

green sticks to socks
and bare, 
wet feet. 



By screen-door light
the moths soft-hard.


Night takes the yard.

Then I will dream
our baby girl
will see the beauty
like me