Stars stud the black sky where the snow tree grows and I in my white bones housed among branches. Slender tree fingers, why am I here in yellow forsythia again, running among daisies. Now I am a leaf between the sky and the ravine. I will call on the wind Oh, Bright Spirit, open these
Even in the sting and sear of these shrapnel days, the gardens insist on their green rebellions, stubborn fists of tulips pushed through the lingering skin of frost and body parts, the lilacs by the Dnipro gushing violet beside grandmothers planting potatoes among the sandbags, hands wizened by survival, each seed an argument with the
My hummingbird does not arrive, it materializes, like an answer, suddenly not there and then is, an invention on emerald fly wheels, a drone-whirring of liquid engines suspended among the blooms on threads of wind and magic. What force each morning commands him to my garden? What bottle green and flaring fuse holds him in
Pink-beige shells and coral dust slept deep inside the limestone that patched the garden’s edge – pale scars where my mother tucked wild portulaca into the criss-crossing cracks of earth. I watched her hands move through the soil tending bougainvillea, periwinkle, and azure morning glory shaping boxes and squares of green against the pale, powdered
I want to learn to love my soft body as if she cradled clutches of speckled killdeer eggs, fat raindrops on ripe saskatoon berries, shaggy hayfields, just before their first haircut, or dandelion puffs, the bigger the better, blowing wishes. I want to learn to love my zigzag stretch marks as if they honoured a
There was no other salad in our home but salata. Greens from the garden spring through fall and the anemic head lettuce for winter. Oil. Vinegar. Salt. The recipe straightforward like all the women in the family. When I tear the leaves my hands are many hands: the thick, worn fingers of Baka the club-nailed
