Manicure
Flirty Pink nails
like Rhododendron
in my front yard,
bloom on my hands.
Mornings, evenings,
doves coo, hatch eggs.
Now a hint of rain,
so many dead this year.
I could look back.
I could mourn. I won’t.
Recline, instead,
on the green chaise
to write.
A small breeze
across my naked midriff
lets me think
the sky will always be
this blue. Mostly
I’m happy—bright nails,
small lights,
burst into flame.