Dwight Gray
waits for day break, sipping coffee.
The end of the rainy season,
water’s standing in the garden
but has begun its recession.
Still, there’s enough to reflect the sky
at six a.m. Sun hasn’t shown
its face, but the evidence
appears in a shimmering pool.
The husband shuffles across
a dirty tile floor as if navigating
a minefield of what he cannot see.
He cracks the window, humid late
Spring air and birdsong
burst through the weakness in his defense.
A neighbor’s truck engine coughs
itself to life, then growls,
more protest than warning.
The wife wades barefoot through
the backyard marsh.
Squash, blackberries, peppers, tomatoes
all in bloom. No bees.
A voice on the radio said the freeze,
just six weeks ago, took
what pesticides had not.
An artist, she takes her finest
brush, painting pollen, from bloom to bloom.
They do what being
a citizen in this place requires.
He pours two cups of coffee,
listens to a song he can’t quite place
that’s coming from the live oak tree,
joins his wife at the garden’s edge
hands one cup to her.
They watch steam rise, watch it get lost
in the morning light,
one of so many things they’ve been able
to keep by letting go.
