Echinacea, bee balm, aster. Trumpet vine I watch your mother bend to prune, water sluicing silver from the hose – another morning you will never see. Summer solstice: dragonflies flare the unpetaled rose. 6 a.m. & already she’s breaking down, hose flung to the sidewalk where it snakes & pulses in a steady keening glitter, both hands to her face. That much I can give you of these hours. That much only. First & blossom forged by salt, trellising your wounded helixes against our days, tell us how to live for we are shades, facing caged the chastening sun. Our eyes are scorched & lidless. We cannot bear your light.