Sun flecks across the fence

in the Oregon afternoon.

I search for warmth

as I remember

the speed of a heart

on the mend.

Like a late afternoon heat,

like a cool, fresh morning

who slips into a blaze

by three-thirty.

The garden hose,

an aquamarine snake,

lies useless in the yard

as my remains lean first toward

wildflowers then toward weeds.

The rainy season will come,

regardless of my opinion.

Perhaps this is all the growth I need.

To be compost

for wildflowers and weeds,

every plant

thrumming for life.

Every seedling accounted for in the aftershocks.