Garden Fires

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 the west, when I felt helpless as so many
lost homes, my tears moistened
the soil. I imagined they were rain
falling in California.

Here it was warm enough in to plant
peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant. Wildfires
spread out west, consequence of climate
change. I weeded every morning, held tiny
cucumber blossoms in my finger tips.

I thought of smoke-filled skies,
outrunning fires.
Here tomatoes grew in profusion.
Winter squash
climbed the trellis,
down the other side.

Each morning’s grace was
a meditation. I imagined sitting
inside a golden squash blossom,
protected.

Bees buzz gently,
covered with gold pollen,
intent on doing only
one thing at a time, and notice only nectar.
I gather herbs and tomatoes,
listen to what the insects say.