And when I poured the daily scraps
on the compost pile this evening
tiny ants burst from an old cantaloupe.
They stream out and hurry
away. When I leave they will return
to the business of devouring, return
to the work of transformation.

Her red and orange zinnias
were five feet high. Dahlias explosions
of purple and white taller than I.
We drank color. We feasted
on the fruits. Tomatoes the size of grapefruit,
peppers and herbs in wild profusion
leafy blooming ripe.

Coming from high desert and drought
I could hardly believe the wealth
of this garden. Her grown daughter smiled,
and said it’s the fertilizer, the ashes
scattered under the tangle of nasturtiums.

The husband and father had put a gun
to his head one day before Thanksgiving
when the garden was a confusion of brown,
when dried vines and zinnia stalks swayed
in autumn wind. When the earth
was quiet and cold.

They could think of nothing else
to do with him but tuck his ashes in close
to their living and watch him turn his face finally
to the Sun.