In the Midst of These That Do Not Toil

by Sheila Dougal

IN THE MIDST OF THESE THAT DO NOT TOIL

September in Arizona’s low deserts

Are a sort of spring, new life emerging

From the dimming heat. Blue Beech and

Armenian cucumbers like Daniel

With his friends in the fire, but not singed

Walking out alive, winding up the trellis

Past the ones that didn’t survive,

Twisting through the Zinnias a vine.

A melon vine, its fruit there out of bounds

On the pathway, overgrown sun-love

A globe of sweet juice in the shade

Of the basil forest a perfect place to lay some

Eggs. Paper white moths and bees dance,

The buzz and click of humming wings wizz

Iridescent and sometimes hover to wonder

At my towering presence. Present tense

Here and now I wilt in the midst of these

That do not toil, nor faint, yet are clothed

And arrayed with perfumes and nectar, a

Crown of magenta hues among dainty yellow

Blooms. I seek a place to hide in the shade

Of the overgrown Bailey Tree, where we laid

To rest our precious black lab laden with

Disease. Her tree is a metropolis of pollinators

And Verdin, Flycatchers, and Cactus wren.

I rest there aware of my toil and try to feel between my toes

And on the soles the Shalom I was made for.

SHEILA DOUGAL

Sheila is a blue-collar poet, gardener, soap-maker, and nurse, raising backyard chickens and goats in the rural low deserts of Arizona with her husband. Her poetry and essays can be found at various print and online publications.

You can also find her at Substack at @plantedlife, Instagram @sheiladougal, and Facebook @SheilaDougal.