Should we have a rain gauge
so that it can tell us when to worry?
So that it can tell us when the soil is shifting
and the roots uprooting
and the worms are clamoring for air?

Should we add a sundial
with an old Roman face
to tell us when it is daylight
or a walk before dark
or time for lunch on the chairs?

And what of a walkway,
a smooth and straight path
to eliminate the shocking step
into infinite space created
by our dog digging a trench?

Shouldn’t we order this chaos,
the plum all sprawl happy 
and prolific, the maple
wildly soaring and profound,
ivy obscuring the fence?

In the hammock made for two,
bees have quit buzzing your hair
and my ice cubes have melted.
Plans evaporate in twilight.
You are all that remains in the night.