Intemperate

                   

 A first taste leads to another, then another.
        Just as in the days leading up to our family  
potlucks, there’s excitement at the prospect of eating 
               for the pleasure of tasting what someone else 
        has made. We’ve become too familiar with  
the shapes produced by our everyday hunger. 
               The crackle from oil, the bite of pink peppercorn, 
         the marriage of mint with watermelon and lime 
are so much more interesting. Before we leave for this 
                communal repast, I drag the old garden hose 
         out front. Everything suffers in this blistering 
heat—the rosemary and gardenia, the twin 
                 Japanese maples and pale hydrangeas. We 
         all lap it up, lean toward the cool heart of water.