Putting a clay torso in the garden
made today a celebration
like finding a starfish in a tide pool
or hearing two men singing by the library.
What if the worst never came?
What if it did? What if bare experience
made things happen only here, like ants in a jar?
I pulled the last of the english ivy from a small patch
in order to make a native shade garden.
Its brethren ivy all around looked on and smiled, knowingly.
The jury is still out on only here versus everywhere the same.
Freeway noise does eventually die out in the forest.
A recluse emerges from his stone house farther up the mountain.
I say hello and he smiles and waves and turns to his garden,
his ivy and his penstemons.