Its a warm day in early May and
the small dog and I are sitting in the garden
occasionally pulling a weed or two.

I will get to the violets, whom
I love,
and the vinca, which I do not.
And pull them both out with a vengeance
They each have a calling for world domination,
violets sweetly, and I will tolerate,
But vinca, aggressive and vining,
too willing to smother and cover
everything in its path,
I will not.

I have decided to live in the garden
to stay in the green and growing world
with her loamy soil and deep shadow
under the redbud and maple trees.

The maples have formed their winged
seed helicopters, those we loved as children
tossing them as high as my brothers and I
could throw. Do you remember?

There is nothing here to nourish your body
just your spirit
and soul,

But we have springs and wells
of sweet water, soil sufficient for crops,
if asked nicely,
and the ridge is quiet with stars.

I don’t know why I am telling you this.

Except to say
if the final trumpet sounds
and you can find your way,
there will be room for you here.
Just bring some matches,
your grandmother’s quilt
and a favorite book.

It will be enough.