I slept poorly, but rose at dawn to tend to my garden.
First I wrapped the world’s largest tree in aluminum.
Then I trucked seventeen million salmon to the sea.
By early afternoon I wore a crown of ash, my throat so dry
I may never speak above a whisper again. It’s late now and
I’m still pumping water onto flames and out of subways.
If I don’t make it out of here alive, tell my son I didn’t die
for a God who does not exist, or beauty, which does.
Tell him we’d made a mess of things. Tell him I raked,
and watered, and pruned what I could. Tell him to do
the same, even if it’s too late–even if it’s not enough.