June 6, 2023

green beans

The weeds are relentless in this rain. Mornings, I rise stiffly out of the sheets, 
drink the first cup of coffee as it were a life raft. I’m not drowning, 
but the garden is. Fledglings stooped under glowering skies. The ocean looks mutinous. 
Of course, we’ve all been warned. There have been signs. Falling chunks of icebergs 
caught on camera. Capsized creatures clinging to the shards. Somewhere we can’t see it,
some clock is in its death throes, but here I am, on my haunches at the raised beds, 
my jacket flattened by the downpour, wishing for green beans, pulling for the green beans. 
I know whatever happens here will not keep the icebergs from shearing into the sea, 
or the orphaned penguins from losing their minds with grief. But how can I
not convince myself, if the stalks survive, that there isn’t still time to save it all?