Big Sky, Small Sky

I used to seek out the big-sky spaces,
windswept ridges, raven-haunted cliffs,
highways lined with juniper and sage
but COVID taught me to look close
at four bushes of lavender and a patch of mint.
Just now sunlight is falling through the stems,
picking out the nodding purple blossoms
and half a dozen honeybees, humming, placid enough to stroke,
not minding when I rub the leaves to fill
the morning air with fragrance – and at the corner of the path
the handful of spearmint I transplanted last summer
has grown to a knee-high jungle that my husband harvests
for pesto, lemonade, and after-dinner juleps.
I don’t begrudge the crows their raucous freedom. I’m grateful
for the quiet company of bees.

Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside