My garden’s runnelled by gophers and moles,
chomped by deer, mown down by rabbits.
Even the birds peck the grass to its nubs.
Yet I suck color like a hummingbird fueling—trumpet vine
to penstemon to the faded Rose of Sharon dangling
from its spikey green. Lean toward the white froth of
buffalo grass, soft as a shaving brush on my cheek.
Salmon oleander flounces, moss blushing green
under its hem. O spicy lavender, salvia
rocketing blue to the sky. How can I sit here
without bursting into song?
Beyond my hedge, red-tails soar, live oak careen
up the ridge, give way to toyon, madrone and redwood
before they all dip to the surge of the grey Pacific.
Let me munch wild sorrel, lie under the eye
of the hovering osprey, yip back at the yellow-
grey coyote. I shake the golden oats like castanets,
a dog, I roll in wild mint. If only I could pull this whole
cloak up to my ears.
Marooned on the chaise, even lifting my pen
a sacrilege.
This poem first appeared in Sand Hill Review (2016).
—
Nancy L. Meyer, she/her, intrepid cyclist, lazy cook, and grandmother of five is from Portola Valley. Nominated twice for both Pushcart and Best of the Net, she has published in 10 anthologies and over 50 journals including the Colorado, Laurel, Madison, McNeese, Stonecoast, Sugar House Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sheila Na Gig, and Tupelo Quarterly. Her first full-length collection, The Stoop and The Steeple, was published in September 2024 by Frog on the Moon. She is a recipient of Hedgebrook Residency. www.nancylmeyer.com and @nancylmeyerpoet
