the world we choose, the world we love
for Nicole Kaltz
Pears ripen. The turtle crosses a walking path to her nesting ground. My dog attacks her own shadow.
Lily pads cover the lake, rise from the muck of fallen trunks and storm
debris. Green algae thick on the pond. Early summer and it is cool.
In San Miguel my sweet girl is dying of cancer. The wall built between Tijuana
and San Diego extends into the Pacific. Deported mothers kept from their babies
by finger-thick slats, use fingers, Kissing fingers for te amo— te echo de menos. A sparrow has a dirt bath and the bottlebrush buckeye blossoms stand upright
like drill sergeants instructing the clouds and sun. Monarchs
appear among the white and yellow butterflies in the rain garden.
A praying mantis wavers on a blade of grass. The cornelian cherry drops its fruit
in the small palms of children as offerings. Aspen branches rustle
in the wind, remind us of a heaven we stopped believing.
But our burning world in your thin arms is the same one we choose to practice love in.