The roses never looked so good before we gained a dormant garden help. But roses burn in just one day of this appalling desert heat. An effervescent sun burning the roses as I must wish it would inflame all features of the abhorrent politicians plunging a nation into ruin ... and archaeology! We look in vain for faces from a human past.
We’re coming home from school, walking up the hill, Marco in front, his head down, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, Laurel behind him, the collar of her shirt spilling out of her sweater like a tropical plant, then Samantha, agitated, as if struggling to free several birds from the snags in her hair, and finally Peter, our little brother, who lags behind us and sings:
and all the people said what a shame that he’s dead