We Have to Know How Much is Enough
Today I walked around the patch of desert full of fan palms and cactus. I have love on my mind as I often do these days and ponder goals almost as old as I am, with hopes too big to carry all at once. I start out early in May knowing how fast the heat comes on here and living in a troubled country, with all the restrictions, the pandemic, isolation is the practice now, a regular way of life for us and a way to survive, and thrive following our stay at home plans. The cactus blooms this time of year, its yellow flowers with cups like angel’s wings, papery to the touch. I wait for them and all their crazy blooming at the start of the giant bouts of heat that come on and off in the desert summer and always it’s time to run for cover, when even the tough-skinned lizard in my garden hides under the aloe plants as long as needed. That’s how it is now, longing for what is not there any more and walking with what still is. The mesquite trees covered in pods, green with new life, one pod as a time. And I remember the kiss on a day like this, one that seemed like it could never end, not for any reason, no, no reason at all. Who wouldn’t hope for it to come back again? As it is, I plan to propagate the lavender later today, each small cutting slipped into the fresh earth, all its dreamy purple life to come by September, what will come back all aglow in the morning light, one purple bud after another.
Charlene Langfur is an organic gardener, a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Fellow and her most recent publications include a series of poems in Weber, and poems in The North Dakota Quarterly and the Inkwell Journal.