when something rattles inside

a name for the tea i pour in the morning
into a cup i leave on the windowsill
for her spirit to sip on
(today it is the chai kind with MACAW and verna’s honey)

feet bare on hard lookfar soil
and sun on my shoulders asi move slowly through
the whites pinks purples and greens
of the cosmos
whose seeds i gather in a plastic ice cream gallon
and i think about how just when the plant is browning/drying/dying
(a think people might want to turn their heads from)
it sends out seed
more magic than any bloom
the whir-buzz-hum-drone
and emerald
of the hummingbird
beelining and diving
around the pollen-full flowers
the white whisps drifting
as i pre-winnow, fistful by fistful,
the just-collected cosmos seed in the slight breeze

when something rattles inside trish says
leaning over in the cowpeas explaining
when they’re ready to harvest

gibbous the gold orange cat
who disappeared for a day and a half
reappears at his feeding perch
with a limp in his hind legs and a crusty scab spot
on his forehead 
moving even more gingerly
than usual

not neon and not molten 
but somewhere in between
(the redpinkorange
of a perfectly round sun
as it hovers just over horizon)