Camille is careful not to let her hair
        come down as she ambles through the bushes toward

her Claude, whose hands work rapidly to paint
        the present moment. Jean lies on green earth

with cadmium yellow hat askew, his splayed
        limbs half-dappled by the rippling shade.

He watches hairy caterpillars chew
        misshapen holes into the leaves of plants

whose flowers’ bright vermillion petals mark
        the start of summer. The single barren patch

of dirt will never cease to irk Camille—
        its baldness undermining hours spent

scattering little seeds into tilled soil
        while Claude chased sunlight’s ever-shifting patterns.

Jean could not fathom in his blissful youth
        quite what it was his parents fussed about.