No kittens in the straw house this morning.  The air is wet even at 6 a.m., clouds calling in storms.  Inside in the conditioned air, I water orchids, think they should like this weather, know they don’t, think how subjective “should” always is.  Between clouds the sun draws moisture from the ground and  I wonder if its thirsty, all that roiling intensity like my insides when I think of the cancer creeping back, making itself comfortable in my blood sister’s belly, how it has hidden from even the specialists who were surprised to open her only to find its malicious grin in their faces.  It’s still in place, smirk firmly planted.

Outside the hummingbird buzzes among the last columbine, the bees are all dusted yellow from the ecstatic  flowers called “Love in a Mist” raging everywhere they can get a root hold, and the smoke tree is in bloom. On the front steps I sit, talk to my sister while the dog snorts in the grass for the perfect place to pee.  The world twists on its axis, my heart keeps its beat, the mockingbird sings overhead on the chimney that needs fresh paint against the new roof.  Years from now, the garden of trees and flowers will be a haven where once sterile grass sweltered in the sun.  Will anyone remember why?