Don’t say step outside with me, this June,

to admire and study the oriole’s nest,

high and pendant in a cottonwood, safe

from all predators. And don’t say look

 

at those blossoms, two Japanese silk

lilac trees. Of course they are fragrant, of

course they lift up panicles in the sun, unharmed.

The blossom tips are starting to brown.

 

You walked outside to help me cut fine green

netting into large rectangles, and then we put it

up clumsily around some plants the books say

are deer resistant—though when starving,

 

white tailed deer devour anything, even plants

with thorns, thistles, and barbs. Also, strong

scent will put them off, but not always.

We surrounded a viburnum, hydrangea, rose,

 

and a gingko sapling, a transplant from the gravesite

of one of my friend Jinny’s people, in Bay City,

a story lost to me. An ancient temple tree,

the gingko’s a survivor—six trees near

 

Hiroshima’s blast epicenter survived the fire—

and are still living. Don’t say the words Gaza

or Ukraine. From a distance, the netting can barely

be seen—held up with twist ties, bamboo stakes.