by Holly Kelso

It became an exercise in faith, the plants
we put in the ground: the Mexican lavender,
bougainvillea, the coral fountain.
The rabbits will gnaw this one right down
to its reedy quick, we heard, so we put one
next to the door, right under the Spanish fountain
so close to the noise and movement of us
they’d leave it alone, this burst of a plant,
each tip exploding in bright orange in the summer
like the lit end of a sparkler in July, a flash of fire
in the sky. The cross vine we put in near the fire
table sprouted up, against the house, its tangerine
buds arced like the wings of the butterflies
it attracted, or the moths that came, at night
when we lit the fire.  They hovered, above the flame,
a body in motion, thinking it over, this moment. 
Twice I reached into the fire to save them, 
and here is the part about faith, not the hand in fire 
but the belief that we can float, right on the edge of fire, 
that brightest star, and not be tempted
to go deeper.