Today--
so cool and cloudy,
mockingbirds make a din on the wire,
in air tinted white with the scent of orange blossoms,
orange with the scent of the climbing rose.
Six chickens scratch.
Seven snap peas sprout.
Salad greens raise their tiny heads above the soil.
That fat little kitten leaping in and out,
makes the cat-flap slap.
Kiki is hungry for my love, gazing soulfully
up at me, her piggy brown eyes large with longing.

I take my daily tour:
a tourist in my own back yard,
flip flops on my stockinged feet.
Slowly,
I walk the perimeter of each border
surrounded by future things to eat.
Grateful at the unfurled leaf
on the shaggy dull bark of the awakened grape!
Joyful at the double blooms
of blackberry vines sprawling up the stake!
The tender herb sprigs have just barely germ'd,
And the squash seedlings
imperiously survey their conquered bed.

I hear tour guides, but not in my head.
Devic voices are not for ears;
they speak in the language of plants and earth.
I learn from them to unchoke that plant,
Snuggle these together close,
Bury nursery tomatoes up to their necks!
And although that soil has a dry crust, inside
it's warm and wet as a womb and mustn't be touched.
The chicken condition clamors its devic tune:
"Let us out, our boundless curiosity is cramped
and oppressed! Give us our right to industriousness!"
But the seed devas know
it is best to wait.
Those frail babies will grow into feasts
and our garden will burgeon into a force:
A force for waging Peace!