Gardening
My sister trims her pots of mint
in the white Colorado sun, and there is
no storm brewing for her, no blizzard, no
avalanche or mudslide coming down
the mountains near her home, but
she cannot turn on a television or radio
(and who listens to radio anymore)
because it’s fake, she says, and she says fake,
a curse, a scissored snip, another
cut of mint, a hacked weed
invading her little garden. I don’t know who
to believe, she says, and here is her fear—
it flies inside her, bangs the screen doors,
the open windows. Here is another night
in a world of thick woods and her rope
getting thin. She repeats what she hears,
weeds the garden. She collects the clippings—
the brown stems, leaves, a curled rootball—
and it’s difficult for her to recognize their beauty,
how brave they are in spite of the clipping,
the culling, the fingers that sweep them away.
Books & Baubles 
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