NELLE 9 | 2026
Again, our makeshift arbor is sagging.
I’ve been looking for the missing string
and for trees who are willing to talk
to me, a lesser being, even if their tone
might be the tone I use with my grandchild,
on the verge of a tantrum. “You can choose
to kick, choose to cry, or we can go
outside and I’ll show you the moss.”
“What’s that?” He asks, pointing to every plant,
the door knob, the plastic chair. He knows all these words,
just wants reassurance of his budding lexicon,
a small hint that the world might work
in ways he expects: hydrangea, gladiola,
daisy, not yet differentiated
into echinacea, brown-eyed Susan;
and earlier, tulip; iris—all gone by.
I tell him the flowers will hurt
if he pulls off their petals. He grins
yanks, throws—wild and happy.
Yesterday, a daddy long-legs swam
in the rainy remnants of his sandbox pail.
He studied each limb,
before spilling it on the hot concrete.
So far, he’s shown no interest in dinosaurs
or the threat of extinction. With chalk, he marks
the porch, the Subaru, his Ninja Turtles shirt
stained with black raspberries
picked through the bittersweet vines.
Maybe this year the grapes will finally fruit.
They’re climbing our lattice contraption
despite the lopsided angle,
the hanging threads.