I didn’t want all this sunlight wasted
on dead grass and concrete,
she tells me, even though the sun has just slipped
below the distant trees and the sky is dimming
from pink to blue then to darker shades.

I’m not much of a gardener,
but there’s tomatoes, zucchini, and herbs—
cilantro, basil and parsley;
she points to three rows of seedlings
straggling up out of the earth,
held by makeshift wires.

By this time, the whole yard has started
to sparkle with fireflies that blink
on and off like embers the wind
has carried out of a fire.

It’s not much, she says, but I wanted
to grow something—I’m planning
on expanding next spring;
she brings out two glasses of lemonade.

No, it’s a great start, I say,
still watching the tiny lights
flickering in and out of the soft leaves—
as if sunlight were flaking
off the plants as they grew,
as if they were giving back
some of the light.

-Kristine Nowak