This years winner is portulaca. She has overrun the competition. I pronounce her pour – chew - laka, as if her presence isn’t already pronounced enough.
A watery **** in disguise, she slips beneath a bed of color when the sun comes out. Hundreds of little umbrellas protecting her from the heat, or rather gathering it. Like those big dishes in the Arizona desert that listen to outer space, she sways and moves toward the voice of the sun.
Three colors dominate. Neon pink, not glow in the dark pink but glow in the day pink.
Red, a red as red as “B” horror movie blood,
and lemony yellow.
In the afternoon they hide. Delicate brushes dipped in color, their daily quota of light fulfilled.
Those not in direct light still fight, open and searching, leaning and bending toward leftover patches of day..
I see one standing alone, upright and outstretched, tall and wiry. A netted wing dragonfly hovers nearby.
The dianthus lie silent among the portulaca. Like gored runners at Pamplona they have been trampled and overrun, their white garment petals splattered in red.
The roses fade in the August heat, tired of continuous expectation they don’t even try anymore. They will be pruned for their indolence.
Near the garage, The Mexican heather sways in the intermittent shade of fountain grass, Running this way and that, trying to catch a random ray of light between the blades of taller grass.
In the corner of the yard the fountain sits bleached and tired, weathered by a season of sun.
It bubbles in slow motion,
the mossy birds lie down in its flow, too tired to stand anymore.