One quick twist of the lid, one fork,
and two speared slices of puckery-sweet

beets, preserved like laboratory specimens,
only reeking of vinegar, not formaldehyde.

Another quick twist and the jar heads 
back into the fridge without a fuss.

No hours of boiling, peeling, canning,
of staining fingers, counters, or clothing.

Leave those blood-dark hearts
beating in the dirt-tamped earth
for someone else to rustle.
                        

I have come to anticipate luminous days,
and in New Mexico I get at least three hundred a year.
After a couple of months here, sunshine grew normal.
Only nights—mostly clear—interrupt my expectations.

In New Mexico, I enjoy sunshine ten months of the year.
I feel blessed by cloudless blue skies, almost holy.
Only nights disturb my expectations, but they are also clear.
Sun’s constancy makes me appreciate rain all the more.

I feel blessed by holy blue skies, nearly cloudless.
Wide-brimmed hats and sunscreen are part of my wardrobe.
I value rain all the more given the sun’s constancy,
terrible for my skin, but it doesn’t halt my praise.

Wide-brimmed hats and quarts of sunscreen: my wardrobe
after a couple of months as I normalized sunshine.
My skin suffers terribly, but not my celebration,
for I have come to count on sunshiny days.