ONE AMONG ROSE GARDENS
Despite determinations of the landscape, soil’s
poverty, absence of shade, harassments of the
blinding sun, I have persisted here toward my
pride’s fulfillment in a rose garden. This grace
sits on the land -- jewels at neck, wrists, ankles
of a tan princess. Piñons and junipers, oaks, hill
mahogany: green of a robe, the only one she’ll
fancy, throughout history. History here is almost,
as it were, eternity (though we know not), under
our single time to do and love. After more work
this year than any previous, rewards have been
beneficent. Blooms have erupted suddenly and
almost all together. They have their seasons, as
the local plants, dependent on shared weathers,
a unity of all variables. The major difference
though: roses, maidenly-like, bud mornings; by
evening, they have blown out of all proportions.
After very few days, not more than a lean week,
the desert tan prevails again. I have had one rare
chance at a glass of buds on desk -- no more than
four, where joy surprised in prehistoric days was
weeks of vases. It’s what I love, what I have al-
ways done, what has sustained my life, sustains
love still. Flower’s perfections, more than the
bird’s (which moves, whistles, can often speak),
is hope-- in its most elementary statement ever.
Far back as I recall: the “pitty flower” I demanded
on any visit, small humanoid, inspecting gardens like
an emperor’s gardener in whatever lieu we traveled.
Reminds me: other dilemmas, decorations, laborsome
situations: time’s throaty laughter, tragedy’s ransoms.
Outside dead wars grind on into the barren sunsets, all
wars now frying heaven’s roses in globalizing deserts.
HUMMINGBIRD-SANDWICH
Bad year for hummers! -- everyone says so. They
do not come to feeders. Experts say “Oh breeding
season, or weather weird” or otherwise. Bummed,
ill-humored, command the dwarfs to visit garden.
Black-chinned hummer finally accesses feeders
and I address him, in the very eyes, “Tell yr. ami-
gos you either come here trooping or I shall find
you in the bush and make hummingbird-sandwich.
Peace in the land! I am not truly cannibal! I swear
this is the sole antagonistic feeling felt today. The
art of gardening (I am in full discovery) is done by
instinct, not armchair knowledge, the constant ob-
servation, over as much as years, of the behaviors
of different plants, patience as great as Jove’s for
any does not make it in a given year -- with joy at
causing it to prosper some year after this. The art
is one as pleasing as any can be named and also is
a healing art -- the concentration and the sweating
being such -- it is impossible to dwell on great but
altogether meaner matters. And healing, not alone
to doctor here as to the patients -- so some good’s
done, (if not to wounded and disheartened people,
homeless and countryless, jobless and foodless, as
are the vasty millions we are supposed to feed by
frequent answers to frequent beggings in the mail)
but to the songless and yet sentient plants smiling
at us with blossom or with leaf. Ergo, since these
good deeds always require one or more witnesses,
I summon ye the hummers from the immensities
lying out there in alpine desert, alpine rock. Dam-
mit! gods, at the poet’s call, no longer can descend,
finding themselves to be deficient in the clothing
of existence. So Nature must provide her testimony
to my fresh-minted kindnesses and re-wired joys.
Let hummers come in then or perish in a sandwich.
THE POSTETERNAL RABBIT.
The sages of aforetime, muttering: “the canniest
among us: those who said they didn’t know. Now
we say this a dozen times a morning -- but it’s not
wise, no -- merely ignorance of how the thousand
things (make it ten thousand a la Cinese) can ever
possibly turn out. When will the war end? How?
Nation end? But how? The planet end? But how?
When will the leaders die, throttled for their sins,
the angles of their mouths slit to the grimace-grin
denotes the groveling apologies they never issued
while still alive? Thinkings interrupted -- the dog,
must exit: sniff, shit, vision, atmosphere. Old now,
sniffs round a rhizome, freezing, staring out, for-
getful -- but does not spot a thing so infinitely
minuscule I cannot figure how to link it to my
ignoramusness. I see it as a baby rabbit, minute,
so very baby, it’s hardly had the time to sniff one
sniff of this dear world. So: what’s the valuation
of one baby rabbit? Compared, for instance, to a
single preemie ceasered out of a mother’s womb,
the mother just now shot? Is there up there among
the clouds one entity personalized who counts the
rabbits born each second on these rabbit-bearing
planets (for we are not alone), prepares for each a
golden coronet, a pair of wings in the best rabbit
fur (dyed white), a minute harp delightfully melo-
dious? So that they sing, the rabbits in the divine
upstairs that never could sing anything below. And,
interspersed with them, the singing prematures? I
feel a dozen times a day I do not know. The world
has now become so complex, there is no answer --
no answering at all: -- “You know, I do not know.”