you’d have to be here to know that everything still smells like it’s burning. the heat of an early spring seems to magnify the scent that emanates acres of charred trees. i counted one hundred and twelve rings on the guts of a ponderosa the other day. i sat with it while the cup of tea in my hand grew cold and i cried. but i also bought new pots and fresh soil this week. i tended the beets, chard, carrots, and butter head coming up in our neglected garden and i felt better for a while. i cut my hands in four places digging through the shards of pottery, glass, and aluminum i’ve collected in the bottom of a ruined wheelbarrow and i made new things with what i found there. the daffodils are coming up in the same places they did last year, unencumbered by man made borders, and i’m praying my heart will soften as they bloom.