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In a Friend’s Garden
for Kristi Nelson “I want to be here to see the poppies open,” my friend says, telling me why she never travels anymore in the middle of spring. We each hold one of the heavy buds whose petals already ache to break free and spread, bursting red at the seams. The mulch is warm beneath our feet, and sunlight shimmers pink in the shifting leaves of the Japanese maple. I keep hearing her words—I want to be here—and feel something new leaning toward the light inside me too, some seed of need just to be rooted right where I am for each small pleasure, every rippling wave of sorrow. She wraps an arm around me, and we go inside for tea. There is nothing to escape from, but our own desire to escape at all.
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