Last Spring, Willamette Valley
Spring unfurls fast and I litter the house with my heat.
The garden unfolds. Morning and night I check
seedlings for their growth, their color, their thirst.
Beans open their mouths and breathe.
Tomatoes are planted deep, suckers pinched.
The night air is sweet with lilacs. Wildfires burn.
Tender tomatoes scald, I obsess about water.
I decide the garden will either thrive or shrivel up.
Please, let me rid myself of this heat, a maddening
wool scarf wrapped tight about my neck.
Let me inhale the grit of cool, rooting soil once more.
For now, I nap in the afternoons, eat strawberries for dinner.