There are no exact statistics for the number
of poppies on hillsides this year.
Prostrate in silk petals we estimate millions,
praising bees who continue to sashay
from rosemary, to almond tree, to hive.
Snow fell in February, peach blossoms
frosted the ground in gratitude.
Here we drink melted Sierra peaks
and eat oranges luscious-off July sun.
This sun with no agenda made raisin pucker,
apricot glow, avocado and fig surge.
Late light slants as my neighbors—
five brothers on a trampoline reach joy.
We smile at each other daily
and seek wholeness in the ways we know.
In this Valley where heat can ruin
relief always comes—the last sigh of pink
breathed through palm fronds.
--Julia B., Adult