Night's blackness a welcome but imperfect muffle

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It's dark all around,
night's blackness a welcome
muffle over a busy, boisterous day.
My husband snores, my children slumber.
My world is so still I can hear my heartbeat
tap a sleepy rhythm on my pillow.

I turned the lights off grudingly;
I don't want to stop reading as this time just
for me feels to have only just begun.
But responsibility and tomorrow forced my hand.

And yet, here I am.
In my new AROMO, a space off our bedroom
instead of my sweet little shed out back.
That spot will belong to someone new in two short weeks.
The boys and I cleaned it out with finality on Saturday.
What remains is the mailbox they filled with cicada shells,
their colorful paint jobs on the walls inside.
The window box and sink,
the peg board they never really used.

Time goes by in drags and ephemeral fits.
My new AROMO is perfect, as was my old one.
Tonight's plum tart was as show-stopping as ever;
it is both new and familiar every time.
I can still taste Dalila's tamales, a gift made and brought
up from Mexico to me last week. The rojo and verde sauces,
the banana leaves and corn husks, the perfect masa. Only a
practiced hand can make tamales like that.

I must not forget to buy more plums after drop-off tomorrow.
Must prioritize a work-out before my ladies lunch. 
Hope the rain finally stops, hope the sun finds us again, 
hope all the new red wrigglers in my vermicomposter are
soldiering through this unseasonably cold weather. My
tomato and pepper plants too.

It's dark all around, night's blackness a welcome
but imperfect muffle over today. I should go.

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The robin that wanted a shower

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Our old yard was a shady place, and I became adept at planting things that didn't need much beyond inconsistent mottled light. In stark contrast, the sun beats down on our new property from morning 'til night. This is an absolute joy in terms of what I can plant and what will thrive, but all those hours of unrelenting rays take their toll on both soil and shoot. 

After many hot hours in the front yard yesterday, I pulled the hose over and set about sprinkling everything down, washing away mulch and dust and giving my plant babies a much-needed drink. I arced my arm right to left, left to right, over and over again, noticing the droplets that hung from leaves and those that sparkled like ephemeral diamonds in the air.

A few birds flew by and landed in the crepe myrtle nearest me. They looked hungrily at the wet plume but kept their distance; all except for one, a sweet little robin with trusting eyes. 

Hop, hop, pause. Arc left, arc right. Hop, hop, nearer. A cock of the head, one eye studying me intently.

"Come here, sweet thing. You must be hot. Come have a cool bath. I won't hurt you." I cooed.

Hop, hop, into the spray. 

Y'all, that sweet bird was blissed out, and so was I. It ruffled its feathers, shook its head, danced about in the refreshing mist. Having now held the hose aloft for a fair amount of time, my arm was quivering, but you couldn't have paid me to lower it or release the sprinkler head trigger.

The robin looked at me again before returning to the crepe myrtle and heading on. I smiled and let the hose drop, ready to start cleaning up so I could head in. 

A few minutes later, a little robin with a trusting eye landed on the sidewalk in the same spot as had the first one and looked at me. I'm sure it was the same, returning for a second dip. And so I fired up my hose, flipped the sprinkler head to shower once more, cooed an invitation, and delighted in his jumping in once more.