Back in an Hour

Back in an Hour

I saw you

See through me. 

With a cool brush of a kiss,

You swept past,

On your way

Somewhere.  

What held you captive,

What stifled your fire,

What emptied your eyes?

Where was

Your heart?

And how long

Had it been missing

Before I even noticed?

I have seen your eyes 

Warm and bright

But not for me

Today. 

Your lips said,

"I love you."

Maybe you do

When you can, 

But

Not now. 

Not this moment. 

I will find you. 

I will capture your heart.  

I will press against you

Until I melt you

With my fire. 

I will love you

Until your eyes reflect it,

Until your lips can't help

Spilling your soul

To me,

Until you fall into my arms,

Broken and whole. 

I will be your world,

Your refuge,

Your strength,

Your home. 

I am awake. 

I am alive. 

I am yours. 

Garden of Weeds, Basil, and Hope

Garden of Weeds, Basil, and Hope

By: Joy Ortiz

Four years of neglect

Made my garden surly. 

She refused to lie barren,

Instead covering herself

With a blanket of crabgrass. 

If I wouldn't plant her,

Then she would plant herself

With whatever came to hand. 

I found her almost unrecognizable. 

Where once grew tomato plants 

As high as my waist,

There remained only a skinny volunteer or two,

Fruitless and small. 

Her neat rows of black plastic

Had succumbed to the weeds they once fought,

Defeated at last, and

Buried beneath tangled lawn. 

We mowed over her for four years. 

I had mostly forgotten.  

Still there lived

A memory

Of what she had once been,

Of what she could be again

If only I would remember her. 

Autumn came, and I stumbled across 

A gardener. 

He was my neighbor. 

We had a long talk

About seeds and straw,

Beans and beets,

Soil and cilantro. 

I remembered my garden,

Her beauty and bounty,

And I yearned to restore her. 

My neighbor volunteered to turn over the soil

So I could bring her back to life.  

My heart swelled with joy

As I watched him walk back and forth,

Back and forth,

Tilling the earth for my garden. 

All winter she slept

As my belly grew with my second child. 

My four-year-old daughter and I

Picked out seeds

To plant in our garden. 

We looked forward to spring,

To soil, sun, and

A new little sister. 

All three came at last, but

I did not plant my garden. 

My neighbor tilled the soil again, but

I had forgotten about

The fifty-pound Sulcata,

Digger of holes,

Pacing sentinel,

Devourer of plants, and

Certain death to anything green and unguarded. 

The yard was his summer home;

My garden had no fence. 

Alas!  The tortoise must be kept out

If the garden was to have a chance 

At rebirth,

So I did not plant. 

The fence became a hurdle. 

Whenever I looked at my garden,

I saw the fertile, black dirt

Waiting,

Yet I did not build a fence. 

In May I birthed my second daughter. 

As each golden day passed,

Spring gave way to summer. 

My garden grew weary

Of waiting for me. 

She began to knit herself a new shawl

Of green crabgrass

To cover her nakedness. 

Had I abandoned her

Again?

I had the best intentions,

Yet days and weeks

Slipped silently by me

As I nursed my new baby,

Mothered the four-year-old,

And holed up in my house. 

One day in July,

I could stand it no longer. 

"I have to build that fence!"

I didn't have much of a plan

As I marched into the yard. 

I only knew 

That it must be tortoise-proof. 

I gazed around for inspiration. 

My eyes landed on a rusty scrap pile,

A stack of garden shed pieces

That had never become

Anything of worth. 

I strode over to it

And began pulling it apart. 

Out of those repurposed parts

I built my fence. 

My husband and his brother helped

Dig holes, plant oddly-shaped posts,

Drill through sheet-metal,

And fasten it all together 

With plastic zip ties. 

When we finished the fence,

It was a zig-zag Frankenstein,

A crooked, rusty, ugly metal wall

That cut my yard in two. 

My neighbor the gardener

Rewarded our efforts

By re-tilling the soil

To give me a second chance. 

I covered my garden's face

With pink yarn lines

To mark her rows. 

I planted her with marigolds,

Beets, broccoli,

Tomatoes, squash,

And basil. 

Then, I left her. 

I had built a fence to protect her, yet

Something was still missing

In me. 

I planted her with hope, yet

I retreated into the house,

Neglecting to water her. 

No black plastic or straw

Warded off the invading weeds. 

They crept in between the rows,

Crisscrossing the smooth, black earth.  

Rows of baby beets sprang up,

Then withered,

Dying of thirst beneath the sun. 

My tomato plant languished. 

Everything was stunted and small

Except for my one success,

If you can call it that:

A pot of basil

Split into four plants. 

They alone flourished

In my thirsty, choking,

Lonely garden. 

I would visit frequently

To cut spicy leaves from their stems,

Taking what I wanted, and

Giving nothing in return. 

I used her. 

I gave my garden life, then

Starved and neglected her. 

Still, she gave me gifts

Every time I bothered to visit. 

Did she value

Such an existence?

Did she remember 

Her days of splendor,

When I had cared

And given her much?

Did she recall

How I had watered each plant,

Counting the seconds

Before moving on to the next

Just to make sure that none missed out?

Did she sigh and shake her head

When I would hop the fence

And cut her basil

Like a thief

Instead of a gardener?

And what am I?

And what do I want to be?

Yet I'm not ready to give her up. 

Though I starve her and leave her,

I love her

More than an idea,

More than admiration of someone else's garden.

Though I neglect her,

I remember her glory days

And long to return, 

To bring my daughters

And care for her again. 

I long to be

With her. 

Together. 

She is hope. 

She is life.

I will buy more seeds for spring

And if she takes me back,

I will stay. 

First Garden

First Garden

By: Joy Ortiz

It all started as a swath of lawn. 

The sunniest spot in my yard

Begged to be a garden. 

I was pregnant with my first child

As I knelt and planted

Tomato after tomato after tomato plant,

All of the peppers,

Rows of seeds,

And hope

In the freshly turned soil. 

I cut long rolls of black plastic,

Laying it between the rows to smother 

Any trespassing weeds. 

I waited. 

Spring melted into summer, and

My garden bloomed. 

Tiny yellow blossoms gave way

To swelling tomato fruit

That grew as my belly did,

Expanding with new life. 

Tiny peppers grew. 

Green-fingered jalapeños and

Lumpy, bumpy bells

Abounded in my beautiful garden. 

Broccoli and beets,

Onions, lettuce, and green beans

Climbed out of the earth

And spread their leaves beneath the summer sun. 

When the tomatoes ripened,

There were more than I could even pick. 

Basket after basket I hauled away,

Yet the fallen, split-skinned casualties of gravity

Littered the ground 

Beneath their massive parent plants. 

My garden was bursting with the fruits

And vegetables

Of my labor. 

A late September labor

Of a different kind

Brought me a different and even greater reward:

A daughter. 

As autumn drew a shroud

Over my first garden,

I held my greatest harvest 

In my arms,

Thankful for both. 

A Family of Roots

A Family of Roots

By: Joy Ortiz 

She is a girl with roots

Twisted and strong. 

They branch out,

Stretching away beneath the ground. 

You see her,

The young, scarred tree,

But do you know

What makes her stand tall?

She was a cast-off,

A whirlybird

Born, then flung away

From the parent tree. 

Through the air she flew,

Not knowing where she would land. 

She fell on the sidewalk

And into a hard, inhospitable world. 

How would she ever grow here?

She was small,

Vulnerable, and

Alone

Until a giant hand

Lifted her. 

She found herself gazing 

Into an unknown face

As the man,

For it was a man,

Carried her away. 

With a voice stronger than wind

And warmer than sun,

He spoke. 

"Well, little one!

You will never grow down there!

Let me take you somewhere better."

He took her to an arboretum

Filled with trees of every size and variety. 

Massive oaks,

Weeping willows,

Japanese maples,

Scotch pines,

Fruit trees,

Nut trees,

Trees tall and small,

Sturdy and delicate,

Deciduous and evergreen

All lived together in the garden. 

Each had its place

Like prized artifacts in a museum. 

Beneath each tree

A plaque bore its name. 

"This is my garden," said the man proudly. 

"Do you see all of these fine trees?

They were once cast-off, lonely seeds

Just like you. 

I found them and brought them here

To see what they would become."

The whirlybird

Gazed in wonder 

At the trees and the man

Who had planted them. 

She was speechless. 

"Here, my dear," said the man,

"You will become

A tree."

He knelt upon the ground.

With a gardening trowel

He dug a small hole in the sod,

Exposing the fine, black earth below. 

"Are you ready?" he asked the seed. 

She trembled

As he laid her in the hole. 

"Yes," she whispered, and

He buried her. 

Time passed. 

The seed began to grow

Roots. 

First a root named Mom grew

With father and brothers branching from it.

Next grew a root named Mom and Dad

With brothers and sisters

Stretching out from its nourishing center, but

A burrowing pest 

Attacked and devoured part of it.

Then it was only Dad

And the siblings who clung to him. 

There were grandma and grandpa roots,

Birth-sister roots,

A weak, sickly birth-mother root,

Friend roots,

Mentor roots, and

Church roots. 

Each brought the seed

Nourishment,

Stability, and

Strength.

Up from them

She grew. 

She pierced the dark soil,

Emerging into the sun. 

"There you are, little one,"

Said the gardener. 

He had been kneeling above her

With a watering can. 

"Welcome to the world, little maple tree."

Under his care

She grew and grew. 

She weathered many storms. 

Through drought and downpour,

Pests and pestilence,

The man cared for her. 

She began to branch out,

Reaching her limbs toward

Neighboring trees. 

Her leaves rustled with the wind.

Her trunk grew

Thick and strong. 

She became a home for birds,

A haven for squirrels,

A shelter from the rain. 

Beneath her,

Supporting her,

Growing from the heart

Of a whirlybird seed

Stretched her family. 

Not a family tree, but

A tangled,

Twisted,

Beautiful

Family of roots. 

They hold her fast. 

They give her life. 

Past spreads out below her, and

Above her

Only the sky. 

Return to Eden

Return to Eden

You know me. 

You see me. 

The good and the ugly. 

You love every part. 

I can stand before you

Naked and unashamed. 

No fig leaves separate me from you

Anymore. 

I've walked backwards through time,

Guided by a map

Pieced together

From countless sermons and stories,

Snippets of songs,

Sunrises, secrets revealed,

Timely hugs, unexpected gifts,

Baby snuggles, and

Flowers that bloom in a broken sidewalk's cracks. 

Your love in all things beautiful

Led me to this place. 

My heart is yours. 

Childlike, I came. 

You met me here. 

No flaming sword kept me out. 

The gate was open. 

I don't fear my father. 

I don't dread my friend. 

I am simple. 

Imperfect. 

Beloved. 

Broken. 

Beautiful. 

You made a way for me to return,

So I came back

To paradise,

To you,

To all things good,

To unfettered love. 

Because you guided me here,

I am not afraid. 

Because you wanted me,

I am not afraid. 

Because you made me,

I am not afraid. 

Because you redeemed me, 

I am not afraid.

Because you love me,

I am not afraid

To return to Eden. 

The Perfect Ruffle-Bottom Pants

The Perfect Ruffle-Bottom Pants

Two days later, my shoulders are still sore from my search for the perfect ruffle-bottom pants. Brandon and I were picking out our fanciest outfits to wear to our friend Ruth's wedding. We knew it would be a swanky affair.  As we tried on different clothes and perfected our look, we realized that we didn't have a fancy dress for baby Hazel to wear to the wedding. Oh, sure, she had cotton sundresses, but those simply wouldn't do.  We needed something better, and it was already the night before the wedding. 

The obvious solution was for me to stay up until three o'clock in the morning crafting a dress out of scraps of black lace and hot pink chiffon. Baby couture is always a very serious affair, so I spared none of my skill in crafting the prettiest little dress I knew how to make.  When I finally collapsed into bed I was giddy with my accomplishment.  Little did I know that I was forgetting something. 

I put the dress on baby Hazel in the morning to fit the straps.  That was when I realized what I had forgotten: the diaper cover. Every little baby dress comes with a color-coordinating diaper cover. My hand-made creation had none. I had a plain white cotton one, but it didn't MATCH.  The dress was pink and black. Clearly I needed to buy a new diaper cover. A black one. With ruffles. 

With this vision before me, I took my oldest girl to her grandma's house and set out, baby in tow, to find the perfect ruffle-bottom pants.  I just knew I would find them at Avant Garden, a crafty shop in downtown Ottawa, IL, where I had glimpsed numerous frilly baby items for sale. Since I only planned to visit one shop, I parked nearby and hefted Hazel's bulky infant car seat onto my hip. It would be easier to shop if I didn't have to hold a baby in my arms. 

I strode into Avant Garden with my characteristic optimism. I just knew that they would have exactly what I wanted. Except they didn't. The sales lady gave me a tour of the baby merchandise, and there were zero ruffle-bottom pants of any color. I was surprised and disappointed. However, the helpful lady offered me a ray of hope. One of their biggest baby item vendors had a booth at the downtown flea market. They might have more options there. 

Determined to find the perfect baby pants, I lugged Hazel and her car seat out of the store and onto the sidewalk. I peered down LaSalle Street.  It was only two or three city blocks to the flea market. I could carry her that far.  I set out to find the vendor. 

Arriving at the flea market with my heavier-by-the-moment burden, I began looking for the vendor's booth. I saw hair bows and cutting boards, painted signs and upcycled furniture. As I traipsed through the grassy aisles, a slight hint of despair began to steal over me. The booth was nowhere to be found. I took an extra turn around the stalls. It wasn't there. Hot and beginning to sweat, I readjusted the bulky car seat, thankful that at least the baby was sleeping. Defeated by the fruitless flea market search, I trudged back up the sidewalk the way I had come. I popped into a dance shop and a custom tee shirt shop on the way, praying for a random stroke of luck that would leave the perfect pants waiting for me in an unexpected place. Suddenly, I was struck with a new hope. Perhaps the booth was at the other part of the flea market by the movie theater. It had to be. What was one more block to walk in search of the perfect baby pants?  I ignored the cramping in my shoulders and hiked the car seat further up on my hip. It was my last chance. 

As I poked my head into booths of jewelry, lawn ornaments, doll clothes, and gutter covers, my spirit sank. No baby clothes. All of my searching, all of my sweating and walking, the pain in my shoulders; the exhaustion was for nothing.  Tired and annoyed, I retreated into my oven of a car and drove home. 

In a last ditch hope for a miracle, I dug through a box of too-big baby clothes in my basement. There were no black ruffle-bottom baby pants, but I did find a pair of huge black tights with silver hearts on them. Those could work...if I sewed them. I could sew them!

Triumphantly I wound a bobbin of black thread and threaded my sewing machine. I cut the feet off of those huge tights and wrestled the stretchy knit through my machine to close up the ends. At long last, I put them on my baby. Finished. 

It was a rush trying to get everything else ready for the wedding. My punctual husband had been giving me time warnings for hours, but there just wasn't enough time left to do everything. We ended up leaving the house late, and Brandon was frustrated and tense. We had to drive all the way to Chicago, and we were running late, all because I had wasted the entire morning on my empty quest for the perfect baby pants. 

Late turned into later when we hit a traffic jam on I55.  There was no way we would make it to the wedding on time. We drove as quickly as we could into the city and parked about a block from the massive Catholic church where Ruth and Danny were getting married.  As we tiptoed, half an hour late, into the sanctuary, I prayed that no one would turn around and glare at me. My heels on the polished granite floor sounded like tiny gunshots. 

No one noticed as we slid into a back pew and heaved sighs of relief.  As Ave Maria filled the room, I marveled at the beauty and holiness of a space dedicated to housing God in lavish splendor.  Stained glass windows, intricate carvings, statues, the grandest of grand pianos, and elaborate paintings gave the room a splendid majesty. At the front our friends were standing in their wedding attire.  The priest recited solemn phrases, and the guests responded, participating in the ceremony with songs, liturgy, communion, and the gift and receipt of God's peace. We had missed the marriage vows, but we made it in time to be a part of the joyous rituals that unite friends and family with God and each other. 

Ruth and Danny were married. As Brandon and I spent the evening eating, drinking, talking, and laughing with friends, do you know what no one noticed?  Hazel's tights. They absolutely didn't matter. What had seemed like such a big deal to me that morning was completely forgotten, and I was the only one who had noticed or cared about it in the first place. I had let myself become so preoccupied with one little detail that I sacrificed my own peace and happiness on the altar of perfectionism. As I held my beautiful baby in her time consuming, elaborate outfit, I knew that all of the ruffle-bottom pants in the world couldn't make her any more perfect than she already was. She fell asleep in the midst of the dancing and din, completely content. And so was I. 

Why the Stars Shine

Why the Stars Shine

By: Joy Ortiz

The sun was lonely out in space.

Suspended in the dark

He burned with fire wild and bright. 

He remembered early days

When he was young and free;

Just a floating mass of dust and gas;

A nebula among many

Stretched out in the arms of the galaxy. 

Unformed. 

One day, unexpectedly,

His center collapsed. 

Gravity entered his life,

Pulling him inward;

Curling him into a ball.

He was forever changed. 

Slowly spinning,

Trying to cool down,

He sent out weak waves of radiation.

With radio waves he tried to say,

"Something terrible has happened.

I used to be a cloud.  

Can anyone hear me?

I am afraid."

Neighbor supernovas shone

Brilliant and blinding,

Dazzling the little ball. 

Their huge voices

Hit him like shock waves:

"Be like us. 

Do as we say, and one day,

If you are good enough,

If you know all of the answers,

You will be a star like us."

Nearby stars buffeted him with 

The hot gas of their agreement. 

The ball didn't even want to be a star. 

He had been perfectly happy 

As a cloud of dust,

But that part of his life was over. 

What was left for him?

He certainly wanted answers. 

"We will tell you!" cried the stars. 

Their voices washed over him in waves. 

Under the combined influence of the surrounding stars,

He collapsed for the second time. 

Within his crumpled center

Pressure began to build. 

His temperature rose. 

Faster and faster he spun,

Gravity holding him together,

And pressure longing to burst out. 

Gradually, as he whirled,

A central core began to form. 

The rest of him was flung out

Into a disc of dust. 

His new form experienced friction,

Causing him to begin to glow. 

Hotter and hotter he grew. 

He reached 27 billion degrees Fahrenheit. 

That was when his core exploded.

Brilliantly he burst into flame

As his hydrogen turned to helium and energy. 

He was a newborn star. 

So young, so full of energy,

He sent out intense jets of radiation,

Causing surrounding matter to glow. 

His magnetic field 

Sent his starry influence 

Rocketing at 500,000 miles per hour

Trillions of miles into space. 

He was glorious. 

He was the Sun. 

Gradually the Sun began to stabilize.

He noticed things orbiting around him. 

His gravity had attracted certain spheres. 

They came regularly. 

Some were closer to him than others,

But even the farthest ones kept coming back. 

The Sun reached out with rays of light

To see what difference he could make in the various worlds. 

Some were burned or barren. 

Others swirled with beautiful gas clouds,

Reminding him of the nebula he had once been. 

Some were icy and distant. 

Most mimicked him

And had at least one moon

As a companion,

Pulling their satellites around them

Just as he pulled each planet

In his solar system. 

He surveyed these worlds,

Products of his explosive transformation,

Born of his violent past. 

They were beautiful. 

Each was unique. 

Something brought the Sun

Out of his nostalgia. 

From far, far away,

The Sun heard a tiny voice. 

"Where are you, Mr. Sun?

I can't see you. 

The clouds are in the way."

It was a little girl on his third planet. 

"I didn't know there were clouds hiding me, little one," he replied. 

"Oh yes," she replied, "They have been there for quite awhile.

Is anything wrong?"

Wrong?

How could he answer a question 

So small and immense at the same time?

The clouds of which she spoke

Were a piece of her world, not his. 

Yet he wanted to be honest. 

"Child," he replied,

"I am very lonely."

"Why are you lonely?" she asked

With large, concerned eyes.

How could she possibly comprehend 

How it felt

To be a star?

"Well," said the sun,

"I am here out in space,

But no other stars are with me."

The girl looked puzzled. 

"But the heavens are covered with stars," she said. 

"Well yes," admitted the Sun,

"But they are all far, far away 

From where I am.

The closest ones

Are much bigger than me. 

I feel their energy. 

It comes in waves 

That pass over me,

But those stars don't burn

With the same fire

That I do. 

"Doesn't each one have its own fire?" asked the child. 

"Yes," said the Sun,

"But they seem so different from mine."

"Aren't all stars born from dust and gas?" inquired the child. 

"Yes," said the Sun. 

"And isn't it some sort of collapse that causes you to change?"

"Yes," said the sun. 

"And doesn't the force

Thrown from other stars 

Transform you?"

"Yes," said the sun. 

"And doesn't friction and heat 

Ignite you?"

"Yes," said the Sun. 

"Well," said the child,

"What's so different about that?"

In the silence of the heavens,

The Sun began to weep. 

For the first time,

As he gazed into the universe,

He saw. 

"Oh, and Mr. Sun?" 

The girl's voice seemed farther away. 

"Thank you for making my flowers grow."