Windsor Road
The house is cut into the hillside,
landscaped against erosion, flooding,
poolside furniture is upholstered
in black and white,
an ottoman, chairs,
an expanse of umbrella,
think Old Hollywood style.
Privacy is quiet, and a white labrador
dives in after a tennis ball,
it’s late spring,
air smells of mountain laurel,
of rain,
of coming heat.
Cypresses catch in the wind,
pomegranate cracks
bleeds crimson,
stains cotton shirts,
palms and lips,
tongues and teeth,
pinks the dog.
Rebar holds the trees in place
as the dog sprints a circle,
canine seraph,
water, always water,
Texas sky changing above —
all that I can say for sure
is that rain will turn the dirt to mud.