In May I pulled away winter’s weeds,
spread manure, and fastened new
fencing. We made a trellis from pine saplings,
an art installation for tomatoes to climb.
Finally, time to plant broccoli, lettuce, and chard.
When I didn’t want to think anymore about
fires in California, when I felt helpless as so many
packed to leave homes, my tears moistened
the soil. I imagined they were rain
falling in California.
Warm enough finally
for peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant.
More fires out west, the land dry from
a lack of rain. I weeded every morning, held tiny
cucumber blossoms at my fingertips.
Thought of smoke-filled skies, of choosing
what to pack to outrun such danger.
And the tomatoes–such profusion. Winter squash
climbed the trellis, then over the fence,
down the other side.
What is it like to wake, smoke stinging eyes,
when simply breathing hurts?
Each morning’s grace is a garden meditation where
I sit inside a golden squash blossom, protected.
Bees buzz gently in with me
covered with the gold dust.
They are intent on doing only
one thing at a time and notice only nectar.
I dry herbs, gather potatoes, and listen to what the insects say.