after danna smith

my life has changed since the soil became fertile again—pink coral bells kissing
sky, orange poppies waking, opening up to this end-of-winter sunshine. & me, 
marveling at this meadow view from the vegetable bed shaded under
tía’s bugambilia tree, the flowers brandy cream & falling. we found the
first two figs of the season today, still green & stiff, not yet indigo.

they’re early this year. my mother will be excited to pick & count them everyday. she asks that i
slice them, turn them into jam with rosemary & lemon zest. i have begged
mother earth to give us a better harvest than the summer before, for
my basket always remains empty or half-full & i want a sweetness i can control. the
thing is, we’re still taming the land. still learning. just this morning,

we realized it was a horseweed, this simple-bladed growing thing below the sun
that was overtaking the walkway, turning the hillside green. it was not
supposed to be there & for some reason, i grew angry & my lover had to
remind me that weeds are just plants in the wrong place & yes, this one will rise
again after being cut down but so will we & this is a lesson i should carry, not what

i should be bitter as lilac about. perhaps he is right. the land has complex history. later, i held a
grub in my hands, sleeping & curled up like our son, their soft body bayside blue & beautiful. 
listening to the birds is like panning for gold, trying to distinguish each call. my lover gets starry-
eyed to the sound of the mockingbird, pretending to be three dozen species at once. at night,
our son chases the crickets, sometimes letting them inside. he jumps, yearning, & i

stay awake, tuning in to their soft chirps in different rooms. i have learned
that a garden is not unlike a seagrove, a gathering place to
admire what we have borne: the big & fuzzy native bees, the swallowtails. how being in love
with a place means you have a valentine every year that grows alongside you. 
we have deep roots here, over sixty years worth, but we are only just learning how to do right by

them, foster & care for them, prune & burn back to grow again. today, i am letting
myself take a breath. silent, i reach for my lover’s hand, squeezing it, refusing to let go.

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Sofía Aguilar is a Chicana writer, editor, teaching artist, community organizer, and library professional based on the traditional homelands of the Tongva, Kizh, and Chumash peoples (Los Angeles, California). Her work has appeared in the L.A. Times, Refinery29 Somos, and New Orleans Review, among other publications. Her debut full-length poetry collection STREAMING SERVICE: the series finale is slated to release in spring 2026. She can be found at sofiaaguilar.com or on social media @sofiaxaguilar.