Summer Makes For a Good Poem

It makes a good poem
when you pick dead heads
from morning glories.
When you arch over on
your toenails to pluck
the buds snaking on the
back fence.
When you lob them over
your shoulder or rain a pink
and indigo
bunch over the lawn.

It makes me want to write
when the sun glints the
bottoms of landing airplanes.
When proud black-eyed susans
flirt with dog noses.
When cicadas sing along with
tolling church bell hymns.

It makes me dash back into
the kitchen for a pad and pen
and flick my fingers, sticky, still
strawberry scented, when the
sky turns the color of your
cheeks when you smile.
When cologne and deoderant,
car exhaust and plastic is covered
up by garden and Off!, petunas
and snapdragons.

Summer makes for a good poem.