The Fourth of Flowers

Yarrow explodes high over
pale pink guara which sends out its spears ever so
delicately over the day lillies

Lavendar, a whole hedge out front,
bursts with blooms.
Shasta Daisies sparkle,
massing and tumbling to the sidewalk,
in a once forgotten corner of the yard.

Mondo grass with beautiful
arching
golden fountains
spray low beneath towering
old organge lilles
bursting from their upright stems.

My garden is shooting fireworks
an all day show
for me
for the postman
for the dealers across the street
for Earl's empty house
for Shelly and her deaf malamute
walking by.

Now the buddleia are blooming
purple showers cascade along the back fence
The hydrangea
are just coming out
like the fireworks
kids and families in
old beaters set off in the quiet,
dark parking lots that line
Table Rock Road.

The occasional sailing through
air of sound
dims and fades.

The sporadic flaring of a cone
of sparks
dancing in the warm air
legs in shadows moving just out of the circle
Our car a boat in the night.

I spell my name in sparklers
a shower of silver
I think back to my favorite 4ths
the big fireworks booming over
Long Island Sound
Safe inside the circle of my mother's
arms,

The little fireworks we set off at
Via Orvieto Beach,
Families come after
the potluck on the strada
to watch the big fireworks
at the Bay Club
across the water,

My own boys running
through the backyard with
children in the neighborhood
sparklers in hand
parents on the back porch
drinking
laughing
watching

There are famous stories
(which I pass down):
The one of my grandfather,
Pop,
The New Jersey dentist
who took crates of tomatoes
and eggs for payment
during the 30s,
trying to stop a little boy from blowing his hand off
with an M80.

Pop
had a scar and a story running from his thumb to his wrist ever after.

My brother Pete
threw a cherry bomb out into what he thought was the bay.
The beach was dark,
the boat slips were close.
Maybe my brother had already been sneeking
his Boone's Farm Wine.
The little bomb landed on a boat.
Then it blew a hole in the heaving canvas boat cover.
Then it caught fire.

If you woke up early the next morning,
while the sand was still cool,
and the bay was smooth as
jello,
you could join Mr. Colesworthy
at Orvieto
all six feet of him
his big wooden handled rake
moving methodically through the sand.

He was not one of the fathers who joined us
a few times during the summer
for a big splash off the dock,
but here he was
pulling sparkler wires and live cherry bombs
from the sand.

Saving us all

From so much

I will keep a box or two of sparklers
for a time in summer
when every bloom has faded
and there is nothing but heat
and the cool dark evening
to console us.