Messenger Barbara Crooker
If, as Mary Oliver says, my job is loving the world, then today
it is easy: a bright sun, low humidity, high clouds
lightly frilling the sky, which seems to be stretching
into tomorrow. In the garden, tomatoes are slowly
fattening into redness, eggplants are sunning
their purple rumps, heavy on their stems, and melons
are swelling, fat with juice. Everything in the process
of becoming. At the sugar feeder, hummingbirds
dart and whir in a busy blur, and the perennials
are going at it for all they’re worth: blue-green Russian sage,
a river of golden daylilies, white ruffled phlox, magenta
loosestrife. At dusk, swallows slice the air
before the bats come out. With all of this, why are we anxious?
Why is it difficult to share? Here, sweetness gathers.
It’s summer, full to the brim. But out there, brassy politicians
are trumpeting the unthinkable: nuclear brinkmanship.
Drought and famine. Cities reduced to stones. The rising
seas. How can we balance scarcity and surplus, greed
and gratitude? Why aren’t we amazed by everything we have?