“Only when the last tree has been cut down,

the last fish has been caught, and the last stream poisoned, 

will we realize we cannot eat money.”

Cree Indian prophecy

 

           

 

My daughter tithes

into the earth. 

 

Doesn’t matter if it’s 112 degrees.

 

Stephanie’s still going to lean over that bucket pond to rescue a floundering bee, 

sow sweat into the dust next to the 6-foot rosemary bush

where bits of sky bloom in winter. 

 

Let water drip through the hose in her hands to nurse bare-roots

bought with stimulus checks. 

 

In Mexico, our ancestors built floating gardens.

But who cares about that?

 

She should have deposited the money

into her bank account.

 

Watched the canopy on those checks grow

until they could water the desert—

acted like an American.

 

With a future.