As the garden grows (though sometimes not-so-green),
the air swells with arid pride and a sweltering grace,
as much for a lack of discretion as for the season's pattern.
And, having lost touch with faith, substituting a hope in beauty for a
false god's smirk,
storm gutters buckle with a burden of silt and a million empty clam shells
in place of water.
Though to me sweetmeats no longer sate,
the off cast, limey husks still capture my children's dreams.
Really, what more is there true to the universe besides that?