Every day I watch the chinaberry,
one morning it will have gone
from bud to bloom,
and I will have missed
the moment of transformation.
There is no way I cannot.

I love our back yard
and hate to think of leaving,
at least when I am observing
it from my desk.
Surveying the damage
of plants that have failed –
well, that’s a different
Watching the death
accumulate beneath
the eucalyptus,
the weeds grow back
in persistent abundance –
then I seem able
to let go.
Except for the stone-lined
bed of mint,
which feels like
every woman’s garden,
a grandmother’s garden,
something ancient
and European,
the debate rages again
unabated by the fact
that I can’t eat mint.