Dog days are upon us, those dreaded summer weeks of…
This is all your fault—
Every bit of it.
When we came here for the first time,
You said, “I want my house right there.”
Like I could wave my hand
Turn bull thistle, broom sedge,
Joe Pye and Goldenrod into
Orchard grass and flowers,
Turn a wilderness into a retreat, A
little beaten path into a doorway.