Another Pointless Poem About Summer Nights

It may just be chemical in nature, 
the rough stew of daytime odors 
boiled long,  then cooled
in a three-sided cedar pot, 
stirred by drooping lavender stems
in a lazy breeze, limp-wristed,  silent.

It could just as easily hypnotic 
the way the geraniums bob
in small circles,  suggestively
while the crickets gradually find
their metronome voices amongst
the tall grass and the concert begins.

In the end,  it's likely what isn't there
which speaks to us most loudly 
like hibiscus megaphones in our ears, 
the lack of expectations and prying eyes, 
the eyes we turn on ourselves elsewhere
where the sun leave no stone unturned