Sabrina L’Heureux
Contributed by Peg Caliendo
Photo: Gwen Berrry
I kneel in grass gone crisp with July,
part stalks of raspberry bushes
finger-tips blooming red, knees smudged
and dimpled by the small hardness of pebbles.
Overhead, a Whiskey Jack attempts to thieve
a few spilled berries, while I pretend
not to notice.
From my rooftop, I’m sure I could see fields
gold with canola, their brightness shocking
in early dusk.
I dig fingers into the earth, searching
for moisture, my garden spade
ready to carve out a spot for a few Asters,
bring some patience to my garden.
Here beyond the mountains, I’m learning
a different kind of summer, one dry
and windy and ever rolling
with a green sometimes overwhelming.