sunflower season

i had a dream that i cut
down your tall sunflower
at its base, where the stem
is thickest and meets
the roots that have grown so
strong this summer and can
now hold the weight of bright
heads with round brown faces
perfectly centered and the landing
stop of bees yellow furry with pollen.
i cut it with a garden tool,
somewhere between a scythe and a saw
and let it fall by my feet;
it bounced slightly, cradled by the foliage.

in my dream there were rings in the stem
like the ones that determine ages of trees.
but this stem just had rings for the past three months
one per day
which told the day's story.
it wasn't much of a story, which is how i like my summer days.
some cold beers and a sweaty tee shirt;
finding grains of sand in my bed, in my hair;
the sweet tang of fresh tomatoes that had dirtied
my fingers and made me smile.

i lost track of how many times i said
the tomatoes tasted like candy,
but i meant it.
i popped an orange one into my mouth,
no bigger than a quarter,
and held it there feeling the roughness,
taking pleasure in imperfections.
(doesn't calling something "perfect"
make it less so?)
i used my teeth to break the thin skin
which held taught inside it the bursting
of flavor and seed and a
sweet messy juice.
i couldn't stop, so i had
two more
while i sat under your sunflower
which, when cut,
would later remind me of this day.

Remembering Now

I'm crossing the rocks where we once tried to make our way, once took long awkward steps to avoid towels and legs and Bud-on-ice.

And i tried to imagine when it was Then: my bare skin, arms out falling forward, staring at the bottom of the moody water; remembering months ago when only the falling snow dove in, and the gray and white geese, squawking, had all flown over head, pointing their Vs toward Connecticut, maybe, or did they go as far as Florida? Farther?

And I tried to remember back to Before Then and I can't remember what the slippery algae felt like under my feet, scrambling to get back up to the rock, making fungus jokes just to hear you laugh ("I would lichen this to a great day!").

And bundled up in a black hoodie Now, hair welcomingy touching my neck, I barely remember the smell of or skin all together, as we sat out on the lawn. Our skin was perpetually sticky with sweat and bug spray; tempted sometimes by that gruesome DEET to avoid scratching at our ankles in the sleepless night when the mosquitoes rested their round, red bellies.

And Now i can't imagine anything but Now: the quiet of the lake, void of its boats like a face without blemishes and I'm held to the present by the sloshing of the soft water onto the rocks and into every crevice.