Self-Portrait, in the Midst of Withering

The weather advisory is the same
as it was a few days ago—poor
air quality, visibility affected.

This evening, I would like to hear
your name floating through the smoke
carried from burning forests in another country.

I would tie one end of it to my wrist
and wait for it to lift me out what's left
of this place I tried to cultivate into

a garden. There are still stalks
of lavender in a pot, a stand of wild-
flowers. The fig tree held on to its green

before softening into one more ripening.
I refuse to believe that almost everything
in the world is merely artifice now.