In the extreme July sun
the old-fashioned roses are born,
on the same day.
Deer are called from the woods
by the soft thud of apples in
the long grass of the neglected pasture,
the smell of ripening tomatoes,
Mullein tilts her span upwards,
– almost –
the arc of sky,
Everywhere, heat shimmers.
The neighbor’s flags,
4th-hung, once proud,
sag from the stiff reach of their poles,
dispirited as the rest of us.