4th of July

I re-remember that wide universe
outside of myself when I step out
to our garden. The young robin
strengthening his little, new wings.
He can't fly proper yet, but he can
flap up to the birdbath and drink.
The worms in the compost heap,
mashing up yard waste, nourishing
plants which I will eat. And the boy,
I offer sun tea to, asks me,

"Is there honey in this?"
No, son. Just sugar and tea and water,
and the sweet honey rays from the sun
which feed everything you see—
                            even me.

Later still, I am inside canning.
The house smells of tomatoes
and delight. The weatherman says
it feels like 104 degrees outside,
it feels like 104 degrees in here,
but we don’t care, because after
the tomatoes are canned, we can
        eat summer in the fall,
        eat summer in the winter,
        eat summer all year long.

It’s only 9 a.m.—a reminder
that today, we can live a thousand lives
before it’s even nightfall,
when the fireworks start.