Sativa

By eight-thirty

the screen door will slam, leaving

the sound of washing dishes behind for

the resonant hum of bumblebees and

the family squabbles between purple martins.

You will not be allowed

Back inside with Mom and the scald-cheeked, noisy baby

until after lunch, unless

it is an emergency

like needing a band-aid

or when you were sick

on your favorite lavender jelly shoes.

But you don’t need anything from in there

when it is warm and there is no rain.

You are the ruler of this ever-shifting backyard realm

full of hidden pirate treasure,

fierce, scaled monsters waiting to be charmed

and a host of tiny,

ant-sized worlds

to observe and tell stories about.

When you are thirsty,

you can drink from the green garden hose

with the yellow stripe

coiled under the window of the garage.

When you are hungry,

you can go to the garden

under the living room window

by the screened-in back porch.

There, two full moons ago,

You carefully buried row upon row

of hard, round promises

into the black, fragrant soil.

Now, you have full power

to browse upon the plump, gravid spheres

that you nurtured from tenacious shoots then

butterfly-winged blossoms.

This garden belongs to you

alone.

It first developed slender, green pods

when your baby brother

was three days home.

You spent hours-

bare knees stained green from fresh-cut lawn-

watching for ladybugs and pulling slugs

among the predictable chorus of birdsong

and the distant drone of neighbors’ mowers

and away from the new, persistent cries

of an expanding family.

The taste of fresh-picked pea

still lingers on your tongue

decades later.

It is a fresh, smooth feel of early morning mist

rising from the pond in the backyard

and sweet, endless notes

of unplanned play and budding imagination.

The crisp bite is the texture

of surprise summer downpours splashing on skin

as you collect your toys and sprint

for the covered porch.

At the time,

Your palate could not discern a sugary promise

that this would be the way

of every summer

even though

it was the last

before

new jobs brought

daylong trips to babysitters

with concrete backyards

and rigid fun.

This taste

you cannot recapture

when you find fresh pods in windowsill pots

or piled in bountiful cartons

at farmer’s market stalls.

Still, you cannot resist

the hope of still-jacketed peas

and the next opportunity to peel open

their secret, unbounded

freedoms.