A Poem for a Monday

The kids and I planted our garden a few weeks ago. Fisher claims he is the best hole digger around. I want them to become intimate with the process of growing--to feel the dirt in their fingers, to watch the seeds sprout and the plants get tall, to know the patience and time it takes to bare the fruit, to appreciate the harvest. And when the time comes they'll fill their bellies with the food they nurtured and nothing will go to waste because of the swell of pride. We've had a lot of rain and already we've seen several inches of new growth, which they mark daily. So here's a poem in the vein of gardening:

In the Garden

Heart—why do you keep imagining what it is

you should have said or done? The world

is full of ways to make you stuck, though you

grow old anyway. In the garden I never planted—

pea shoots swirl on trellises, springing airless

yet rooted. The mouths of zucchini blossoms

gasp, filled with the weight of sun.

Rosemary and chive, the clean scent of basil

filling the space between ears. Oh the tomatoes,

ripe for the hands still trying to decide who

they might be. It will take years for asparagus

but it will feed us for years. There must be honeysuckle,

hardy and substantial. Carrot and sweet potato,

parsnip and Vidalia bursting sweetly and well-hid.

Like a map for the lonely, wire trenches to keep

the gophers from tunneling in. And they always try

to get in. Wild and tender in the crisp night,

thirsting yet fed under sun. To be bountiful—

nourished and nourishing. Laid bare

by the harvest of chance.

Casey Lord