The touch-me-not, also known as jewelweed, tempts 
the curious to poke the seedpods, so like those of peas, 
plump pouches of the brightest green, though much 
smaller. At the slightest touch, the seam splits, a broken 
zipper, spouting seeds like cannonballs in all directions, 
leaving the rabbit or the squirrel, the hiker squatting 
by the plant with only shards of empty rind to show 
for it. It often pays to tantalize your enemies, 
employ their ill intentions to survive.  

Watch video of plants exploding to disperse seeds
                        

They were serious business, those games
we played at in the schoolyard, up the 
driveway, against the stoop, with balls, 
and bikes, or rakes, chasing each other 
up and down the block, building igloos 
in the snow. We played family, repeating 
all the curse words we heard our fathers 
utter, played war. On rainy Sundays, 
we got out old box games like Monopoly 
or Candyland, dealt hands of Old Maid 
on the kitchen table. But I preferred 
to play alone, retreating to the damp 
basement, where I’d imagine I was 
flying in the clouds, though it was just 
a stationary bicycle with wings 
I’d fashioned out of plywood, laid 
across the front end of the seat.  
Sometimes as I flew, I’d sing along 
to records of Broadway shows, 
learning all the words. I still 
remember some of those songs.

Fire is no stranger to this place; it always had 
its season and its time. The native plants 
know how to make the most out of each burn, 
to set their seed, let the tall trees go, and coax
the other plants to grow in newly acrid soil, 
to use the extra space and light. Until new towns 
sprouted in the hills and woods, and what once 
was natural extinguished human lives. They called 
it Paradise. Maybe it was, once. You’d think they 
wouldn’t build again, accept it wasn’t meant 
to be a place of human habitation—poor soil, 
not enough water, but you’d be wrong. 
Like fire, we make our landscape and our 
weather, change the land to suit our fancy, 
won’t stand aside as trees do, accepting 
it’s their time to share the light, yielding 
to the needs of the community. This quality 
might prove to be our end, this refusal 
to build around the limitations, instead of 
blindly forging straight ahead, leveling 
the mountain, and damn whatever 
lived there till there’s only room for us 
and what might scavenge on our leavings.