The fish and chips on the table are an idea imported from England. The English had to wait for potatoes to emigrate from Peru, put down roots, acclimatize, settle in, assimilate. Tikka masala arrived later, a bank shot emigre from India, via England. But it had to wait for chilis to cross from New World
The red oaks are still robed in their green and red glory as we approach Christmas. The hackberry stands quiet in its winter bareness. I do not know the tree with tiny leaves that remain green all winter. Here on the edge of the Edwards Plateau it whispers it name—Plateau Live Oak. Before the settlers
Among the lofty statues – gods, consuls, empresses – who loom above the marveling crowds, glass cases show the treasures of daily life in ancient Rome. Here I find my entry to their bustling city life. A tiny object, centimeters long, a block of ivory, its top a small carved face, with eyes that gaze
Do not bury witches beneath me my roots are neither iron nor water Rather watch for my seedlings set them in a circle around you Let my blossoms bring hope to you unfurling after uncertain winters Come late summer orange berries precise blackbirds forage delicate-beaked starlings slop-scatter magpies hammer into my arms Do not curse
There’s more plastic trash in the ocean now Than sea anemones and starfish, and the otters are belly up with intestines jammed with plastic bags. At Starbucks I snap on the plastic lid and head to the office with my morning coffee. I don’t blame anyone. It all started out so well: Plastic conveniences for
