Watering

I built my wall around a house,
a trim garden blooming inside.
And a wife, in a yellow blouse,
that sits beside
the crumpled petals of the peonies.
The ants parade under her feet,
like well trained marching ponies,
their antennas quarrel when they meet.
The summer bends their busy trail,
as water trickles out the hose,
and turbulates some paper seeds that sail
in a puddle, overflowing
with ease beneath a faucet:
and the sparkling nozzle head
she turns at the expense
of dusty beds.