Trimming the redbud whose
splendor was just right
back in April, I gave
the white hollyhocks
a shot at sunlight, as who
would begrudge their
skin-sheer petals access
to radiant July? I have,
after all, a steady good
time meddling in that
garden not of my own
making and never find
more trouble there
than paper wasps or
a black racer, but what
rushed through my rash
mind when I saw
bright eyes amid
the blossoming hosta
was this: what if his
mother (blackberrying
downhill, I guessed)
took offense at my
presence? He gazed
steadily at my face then,
as if to prove himself
no menace, the still
fire of his fur turning mild,
and when I saw him weeks
later by the meadow rill
cleaning a fingerling
rainbow with his forepaws,
he gave me no sign.
Now in raw autumn
the hollyhocks have risen
to resplendence,
and this morning under
the birch turning gold
I found hand prints
with small claws. Evidence
of his scavenger’s
existence, though I can’t
say if his animation amid
the torn marigolds is kin
to mine or some restless
sign of the season. At night
he gnaws the rake handle
to taste or maybe annihilate
every trace of my salt.
