I remember one day in dust and
the scream of cicada voices,
I traipsed across the kitchen,
tennis shoes full of dirt and
bits of weed, clambered into
your lap and you held me;
voices too dry for words.

Later, back in the field,
I searched its boundaries
for something new and growing.
I placed a bunch of wildflowers
in the big coffee can on the
kitchen table, filled it deep
with water, turned to go out and play.