I’m a child again
In my father’s garden,
And wherever I stand
I can reach the farthest bed
With the hose in my hand.
Wading the rows, I drench each plant,
Flooding the island of raspberries,
The ring of onions round the rose.
The sunflower that’s reached my waist
Is a green lion for all its mane.
And when I turn a soft bell of silver
On the seedlings at my feet,
Their bow of thanks is all
The blessing that I need.
A pair of hummingbirds come for breakfast here.
I’ve made friends with the male.
The nectar-sipper hovers a foot and a half away,
Dipping his tiny feet in the spray.
He shows his bright throat-even turns his back-
So total is the trust.
And if I’m lucky, at dusk
Deer will leave the dry highlands
And stamp down the lichened hill.
Last night, a young buck surprised me.
Descending through the red madronas,
He didn’t stop at the pond like the others,
But stepped right up to the gate;
Nor did he shy when I neared.
Pretending to browse then,
He nibbled at an alder
And dropped his head to the clover.
But I knew he’d come to see me.