The summer is unkempt, all sticky and warm and littered with picnic garbage and new graffiti on the rocks by the lake. The fields are overgrown, the plants climbing over each other and out of themselves. Shoot from seed, leaf from stem, fruit from flower.
I am unkempt, standing over the kitchen sink with peach juice running down my arm and my hair sticking to my forehead.
In the summer, I stretch my arms to climb, dear God please, outside of myself. Let me have something to show for twenty-nine hot summers.