Saint Francis After Six
Christopher Moya
The low sun carols, clutched by hills.
Reflections of summer stamp the foliage
Above the sodden watersheds.
In the planter drums the pulse
Of a half-closed spigot,
With dahlias yearning underneath.
He looks on wrought iron,
Stone-fixed away from the stuccoed wall,
The windowsill, and the brick borders
Of Mexican heather.
Begonias face beyond the grass
As he leans toward Japanese boxwood
Beside the white birch twisting up into glory-
Potentilla applauds among the flood lamps,
Jades pray in pots nearby,
And the whole yard warbles autumnal praise.
Agapanthus tips toward the drive,
Snapdragons sneer sweet imaginings,
And the day lilies drool evening dew
In soft humus
While dwarf roses laugh pink pulchritude.
Beyond the wall,
Iris-spikes explode from corners.
Tomatoes drop and pound the loam,
Spade-punched and silken,
Stirring the garden's wet webs like thunder
While strawberries wax odorous in the shade.
Leaves brush daintily the porch-eaves
As the dusk umbrage breathes a quaint wind.
Fires of mimosa fall to earth
And sing September.
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