May, dirt under nails, catmint flourishing–
delicate purple flowers reaching beyond the garden fence.It’s easy to think the work of spring is all you need.
Last September, bitter dock and dead nettle overtook the plot–

wild fronds crowded out my plans for basil, cucumbers, tomatoes.
I blame my laziness, too many hours in the hammock reading

when I should have been rooting out dandelions, deadheading flowers,
cutting back tomato vines at just the right branching.

I blame the world for its weedy nature, the harshness
of August sun. I blame August for its penchant to

stretch time, make you forget everything
on the other side of locust drone, sweat-soaked shirt,

cold glass filled with ice held against cheek and brow.
The August spell whispers, Look at the hammock

waiting under shade. There will always be time for
hauling the wheelbarrow, straining your neck and back.

Come here into stillness. Run your hands over the smooth grain
of the hammock’s slack. Let your lids close under the weight

of everything you hungered for. Listen to the joyful twining of wild vines,
the chorus of aphids gnawing, the blooming in yourself, suspended.