Small garden, slow growth, late bloom…
I rest on promises of rich soil,
Touching tender nasturtium leaves,
Longing for ghost blooms,
Haunted by familiar regrets
Like leaf-miners eating away at resolve.
I push back my leaf shields,
Lift up naive eagerness to see
If underneath, in shade I may find
Tenacity nurtured, and tested and strong.
I build fences for fortitude
And try to resist the winds of weather shifting,
I shift my own footing, trying for nimbleness
Though often wilting, and think that I,
Like my dog, smell rain in the wind.
Gardening is hard going,
And for all my farming ancestors,
I remind myself that I’m just learning
On sharp chicken wire curves;
On bamboo sticks and twine, I’m just leaning,
Bending myself into submission and humility,
Fussing over tender shoots and pulling weeds.
