One Hundred Thirty Seven and One Half Degrees

Spring gets me to wanting Summer.
I am impatient.

One hundred thirty seven and
one half degrees. Exactly.

Rust, met by air
or blood, empties on the roots
of the helianthus.
Blood does good for roots.
Carmen bends low to pick
a tomato. Then nine.
Curlers in her hair and a dress
that fits loose upon her hips.
Income for the next generation
of kitchen scraps. Then chicken feed.

In late summer sun
the dropseed begins to cede.
I could dig it up and plant
it near the Indian grass. Or the
river oats.

137.5°

Iron and oxygen combine.
Hemoglobin. That thing they say
is thinker than water.
Is sweat thicker than water?

I’m watching an orange beetle on
the milkweed. Saddle
bags of pollen caught in anthers must
be the invention of sex.
Carmen calls me in for dinner.
She will give me five of
the nine tomatos.