7 a.m.

My neighbor’s sprinklers turn on.
He seems to water every day.
We are alternate days,
mid-August high nineties.
This year I have avoided moving
the plants I usually roll
to the shadier side of the deck.
I moved the hose instead.
So far I’ve managed to be diligent.
Even the geraniums in the small
pots hanging from the fence
still survive.
What I call my pocket of pretty,
colorful blooms I see from the sink,
though only the geraniums
and petunias still manage to bloom.