Swelter

Always the early girl, yet
I don't like mornings.
Hop the wire fence
just to get to you.
Blood runs red
and ants enjoy
drops from my green
flip-flops,
sticky sweet like strawberries.
The late-summer sun
burns hot
the brandywine, sunsugar
cherry, forgotten,
hang on the vine.
Empty sacks
like my heart,
left to rot
among the pleasant smell
of lavender.