Another 4th of July
Then I see you in an antique farmhouse,
checkered apron at the hip,
mixing mojitos from fresh mint.
The table set with yellow plates,
red wine, salad bowl big enough to swallow you
invites us in. We find our places
as the sun sets, light candles to keep bugs away.
A toast for firefly-flecked eyes,
lights dancing against the dark.
For everything there is a season;
farmers know this more than most.
Every season a new family grows
in the bed I prepare for them,
soil soft, waiting.
Like all gardeners I am surprised
when the harvest comes in,
to see who has made their home
in my field,
and to see where I myself
have chosen to sleep.
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