Each spring, encino oaks unravel
their festoon of catkins, toss
them to the wind that carries
their seeds over the fence our past
pieced together. Go with God, she whispers
as the pollen drifts from her branches.
Crabgrass creeps beneath the boards
and mingles with the carpet blades,
sucks dry the soil you water
in your crepuscular ritual. You can’t stop

the dandelions from peeking up
their yellow faces in your bed
of sprouts. You curse them
as they burst into florets
of snow, pop their downy heads
above the earthen sheets.
Mesquites, too, uncurl 

from the earth and escape
from the monte to our Eden.
One sneaks in, a tiny bean
pod tucked into the pocket
of a child who hasn’t learned
that in this yard, that’s a weed
and doesn’t belong. This lawn,  

this carpet of roots and blooms
welcomes with its open palm the limon tree
for her starry blossoms, a vine of jasmine
to cover up the wound. You populate

the patio with palm trees, immigrants
that stumbled down to the Rio Grande
in the thirties when the sweat ran dry.
In the garden, you grow sprigs of cilantro,
serrano, a row of lettuce, two tomato plants
to cling to your trestle –

and just one single encino for the afternoon
shade. You rake and rake the acorns
in autumn, toss them over the fence
into the dusty rancho on the other side.

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