Summer
Heat
The wisteria might
not bloom.
Months after sprouting
curling branches,
temperamental
vines know the weather is changing.
Perhaps she
heard screeches from the
brazen
bougainvillea that latched onto our window screens.
Thorns lacerating
left and right—creating holes--
a magenta blur
on windy days.
“Let me in!
It’s coming,” she seems to scream.
Two hot days
and the tender clematis surrenders.
Arrogant weeds are
in their glory.
Meanwhile the
frolicking jasmine,
holds a perfume
competition with the roses.
Though most
lemons are gone—
squeezed into
winter recipes--
barely enough
for a pitcher of lemonade--
their new blossoms
add a joyful citrus scent,
luring us out—
into the shade,
where pale
green matures into a bold,
fragrant palette.
Until late
summer—
when the desperate
vines cling—
droop and
wither with abandon.
When the
parched grass fades to yellow,
and we now smell our neighbor’s barbecue,
tropical
scented sunblock,
a floral fabric
softener that reminds us of wisteria.
The time comes--
when even the dastardly weeds wither and die.
Eve Gaal
