We were gone for the month of August, off to someplace cooler where we ate our breakfasts beside windows that looked out on hollyhocks and mountains and held our Zoom meetings from a table on the back porch. I asked our house sitter to put up this poem for the week we returned, not knowing what surprises would await us on return (the politics of Texas being one of them) but also knowing we would be grateful to be home.
“We turned into the drive
and gravel flew up from the tires
like sparks from a fire. So much
to be done —”
