In the yard, flowering

Fair the flowers fell, crimped and cut.

Afternoons when the sun drooped lazy and its rays softened gold, she clipped roses in the yard. Though, she loved the rare occasion when ash from a nearby brush-fire filtered the sunlight into clay reds and orangey pinks -- those were best, she said.

I loved her sun-hat, whose shade stretched as a loose thatch across her face. Pocks of light shifted with each tilt of the hat -- snip, snip, snip. She worked diligently.

And her garden dress. She hated floral prints, but loved checkered colors of reds and whites and yellows: "you look like a tablecloth," I reeled playfully, but I could never hold for long and a smirk soon broke across my face; my eyes betrayed me first. She gave a giggle in protest and waved her clippers at me in playful indignation.

I loved her hair that day. She had stuck flowers she'd plucked from the annuals behind her ears. Her hair bloomed colors of red and white and yellow. She looked as part of the yard blossoms.

There was interruption in our play. I took her 'round the waist in embrace and kissed her. She sounded an "uh-huh" hum as our lips met. She always made this sound when one of my frequent advances pleased her especially.

After awhile, we parted, I went inside to fetch water and she resumed clipping. But I wouldn't return; I was opening up the blinds and windows to let the breeze in.

After awhile, she came looking; she found me -- on the couch. She took my hand and lead upstairs.