If you are empty enough

and done mowing on this the coolest evening of summer

and somehow the rain didn’t follow through on all its threatenings

and if you are blessed to have blood as thin as Kool-Aid because of your meds

so you have an only slightly clotted map of the Euphrates on your arm where the rosebush

snagged you

and the fireflies suddenly appear

and the cicadas start to chant their vespers just as dusk settles in thick

and you realize that this delicious aroma in the air is really just the sweet smell of you

after picking rosemary, spearmint, peppermint, catnip, sweet basil, purple basil, Thai basil, oregano, chives, thyme, and sage

or even that you go on and on, as if by exhaustion, by exhalation, you could finally reach exaltation),

then you stand at the worn patch in your backyard 

precisely where four amazing creatures learned to pitch by throwing a ball to you, 

sometimes, no doubt, as they were thinking of all the things they would do after leaving this 

safe place,

this garden, 

and you look up and say thanks to the completely shrouded stars

for every second of so much dreaming

and for home plate 

and for all these beautiful anchors.