At
7:15
The
Sprinklers
Come
On,
Making
Rainbows
In
The
Sun.
A
Few
Sparrows
Fly
Through,
The
Grass
Now
Sparkling,
Silvery
Dew.
I hope
To
Make
Every
Green
Thing
Grow,
Although
I know
The
Ground
On
Which
I stand
Is
Less
Dirt
Than
Broken
Quartz
And
Roasted
Desert
Sand.
I rake
And
Weed
And
Scatter
Seed
Like
A
Fool,
And,
Breaking
Every
Conservation
Rule,
Lavish
Precious
Water
On
The
Reluctant
Soil,
In
Endless
Summer
Toil.