Pacific Northwest: Summer 2021

By: Pat Phillips West

It’s not easy when there is so, so much

to understand. I stand and look

at the heart-shaped leaves of the pole beans

that hang limp, baked to death

on the vine, chives curling in on themselves,

a futile attempt to shelter in place.

I don’t have more pressing things to do

under this once-in-a-millennium heat dome.

I stand here, when to do so feels impossible,

and wish that one slow spoonful of water

could bring parched basil, red and green lettuce—

bleached beyond recognition—back to life.

Even the tired tender sage and rosemary rage,

What is it with damnfool Earthlings

who don’t fear consequences?

I notice how heat-loving zinnias stand undaunted,

offering the quietest hint of hope.

A kaleidoscope of purple, pink, orange, and yellow.

Their blooms even more vibrant as temperatures edge

toward triple digits, again.

And so I stand for as long as I can, acknowledge

the heavy scent of the compost pile charged

with ripeness and oversweet rot.

Someday there may not be a morning after. All of this

is temporary, none of it guaranteed, every last bit precious,

even the crow with an injured foot that arrives

at the back fence, looking for a handout.

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Pat Phillips West’s work appears in various journals including: The Inquisitive Eater New School Food, Haunted 

Waters Press, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere. She has received multiple Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominations.