Garden Fires 

In May I pulled away winter’s weeds, 

spread manure, fastened new

fencing. We made a trellis

from bamboo, cut from Courtney’s 

overgrown garden, a art in progress

installation for tomatoes to climb. 

I planted seeds for 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 out west. It’s  finally warm enough here,

I plant peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant.

I prayed, weeded, held tiny 

cucumber blossoms in my finger tips,

thought of smoke-filled skies, of choosing 

what to pack to outrun this danger. 

And the tomatoes–such profusion. Winter squash

climbed the bamboo- eight feet up, 

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.

I sit inside a golden squash blossom, protected. 

Bees buzz gently in, then out, 

covered with gold dust.

They are intent on doing only 

one thing at a time, and notice only nectar.

I send prayers to the west coast. 

I harvest calendula and skullcap to make medicine,

dry herbs, gather potatoes, listen to what the insects say.

Now Colorado and Canada are on fire, too.