After the weeds lie in piles  roots exposed 
I linger near the garden  inhale
iris perfume  soak up
morning humidity that settles in
like an old friend.
I slip into a summer stupor 
drunk on the languid June hours
as if emerging from winter clothes
was not enough  as if
bursting leaves and spring flowers
were not enough and these warm winds
were the only vehicle
to this one perfect moment