Because we waste not, when gooseberries
dangle from our fence, I harvest the sour spheres,
eager to can. My husband toils alone inside,
ticks numbers off a spreadsheet. Our child
 
skips in circles, gyrates to peepers bellowing
in the violet evening. I tell him fairies dance
between the roots of our ancient pine. I want
to give him a world suffused with awe.
 
We travel to old growth forests, waterfalls
and rivers, seek the magic of summer hail,
the loon’s cry. For a trace of time we are earth’s
acolytes, tending to tomatoes, savoring pears.
 
Come out, Dad, our son shrieks. We hear a chair
scrape against the bare floor, the screen door squeak.
The night ratchets up in happiness. And creation,
bringer of our abundance—how to bless it in return? 


© by Margaret Coombs.
Used with the author’s permission.