She plays to my weakness, but I don't mind.

Sure, you could say I'm her utility, but I don't feel used. Far from it.

Look, I stitch the kingdoms of ground and sky. I negotiate the cubic acres, meander my own network, my access to any point in space. Fact is, I'm the forest ranger, tender, lover. She yields everything into my tiny hands…more nuts than I know what to do with. Just look at my belly!

The excess I pocket into the dirt. I always bookmark those make-do larders, but just as easily forget their whereabouts. Still, nothing's ever lost: its win/win here, twenty-four/seven. Whatever acorn is absorbed into my amnesia, it resurfaces years later, another addition to the canopy, sinuous, networked, laden.

I till, I sow, and I forget…and look at my reward: from my loft I see nothing but her leafy ingenuity.

I don't sweat the small stuff. I figure too much intention is shortsighted, over-rated.

It's for her to know, me to enjoy.

BIA LOWE's essays and stories have appeared in many magazines and journals, including Salmagundi, The Kenyon Review, Harper's, Ms, Witness and the webzine Killing the Buddha. Her first book, WILD RIDE won the QPB New Visions Award for creative nonfiction. She currently lives in Mattituck, New York, where she is co-owner of The Old Mill Inn, and where she is cobbling "Unified Field," a collection of tales, some of which appear here.