Ode to a Front Yard

Something in the way
the coco plums level
with the wind, chattering,
plum naked in the breeze,
making bets on the rain.

The salt air settles against
the stucco, and makes diamonds
in the roughage.

We sit on the porch
staring at the sand spurs
still wet with morning dew
and the alyssum stiff with the
apprehension of sunlight,
as through a jar.

Something blinding about first light—
it’s the only diffused light it hurts to look at,
suppose the atmosphere is licked with light,
and it’s trying to spread the wealth,
only, there’s too much to go around.

The burs melt in the sun.

The alyssum swells like allergic eyes,
and the hairstreaks go streaking,
naked as the coco plums.