KATHRYN WHETTER

 All I Own I Will Share With You

a woodlot of ghost gums and wattle
inflorescence and a rainstorm caught
in the crook of the mountains. What we
own is so little I make up stories
about it: this god gave me sunlight;
I acquired gossamer on a quest; I
must guard you with my life—as if
I, collector of frog calls and memory
have ever kept anything safe. Here
are last season’s plums preserved
in vinegar and star anise, here are
the seeds: pumpkin and okra
and summertime prayers, un-planted,
kept in tissue paper for next year—
my love, say we are rich. Say this
tumbledown mountain is enough and
that you’ll sleep with me here with
the ghost gums, the wattle and the not-
yet-flowering plums.