I watch the pudgy little neighbor woman in the lavender pantsuit take down her flower baskets on tiptoe and fill the pots with water. Earlier, her red- faced big husband man had screamed at her daughter, pink and blossoming, about knocking over his soapy water bucket and laughing before she hid. She is small and peaks out from behind the shed like one of her mother's peony blooms. Little lavender mother has a pretty face, which she hopes she passed on. When she was younger she put her daughter in a little bassinet basket and tucked her in like sown seeds. Big red father either yells in the yard or is quiet. He is a sun setting, a big burning orb that kissed his baby once before he hit the horizon. Looking out, lavender mother thought the hills might be on fire. She hangs up her baskets on white hooks on the porch and her baby laughs once loud from behind the shed. Red sun father is quiet at the kitchen window, a couple rays of light at the table falling on the dishes mother washed. He wishes he could break one, hear the glass like the flower pots falling off their hooks in a great wind Like his daughter's one great laugh. And mother soaks the blossoms in water, drowns the blossoms in water, a few carefully sown seeds.