This garden is a miracle.

Aphids dropped with April, gorgeous emeralds

with teeth. They preen against the petals,

distill sweet sap to honeydew.

Down bark, down fencepost, tazzled branches

dart and pull their braiding shadows, a slapstick

of diff raction. Downwind the barnstormers

perfect their spectacle—stiff cloth, wood

prop, 2-cycle engine ascending like a prayer

to flame out, hang breathless, cartwheel

over and power swooping earthward.

It's all for show, the windswept scarf

from forties matinees, the smoky trail,

the drama of the stall. The pilot streaks

to level, tilts a greeting as he buzzes

overhead, milks the throttle, rolls

headlong into a spin, whining, frictive, the form

of glory, and gloriously sunstruck. Seasonal

the ritual, pinching aphids as I kneel

upturned, squinting sunward for the sleek

daredevil flight, for the promise of the climb,

of sunlit wings, of plain things charged

and fulgent, of one perfect

performance, of earth as it is in heaven.