Mountain Monsoon

Loud seconds turned ten minutes white.

Ice marbles shredded pines, and hundreds,

no, many thousands of tiny piñon cones

dropped like fists across flagstone paths

and bounced in drunken dance with hail

through carefully tended beds. Blood roses,

poppies, lilies, coneflowers, daisies,

hollyhocks, pots of mint, tomato, petunias,

basil, sage—all torn, bruised, deflowered

by odd stones, assault tangled up in rain

and new needles, everything now a sodden,

sad mulch. The quadrennial promise of pine

nuts lost—days later, ragged hands of hostas

raised a stand of pale poles. Purple buds

hung limp above green tatters, never bloomed

in surrender. Fire ants collected their nectar.