I am not fit to tend that garden yet.
Though I walk by it every day. Though it
is on my property. Though there’s a thriving
patch of shoulds sprung up around the fence.
The gate is twined in bindweed, green and dense.
The rows are long-since overgrown with grass,
oregano gone viral, clover, spears
of mullein, dandelion rosettes. I’ve grown
familiar with neglect, at times forget
it’s mine to cultivate. But there it is.
Last week, I stepped inside the disarray,
took one long look at shamed disorder, tried
to see a place to start, and quickly left.
I am not ready for that garden yet.
how apropos that the garden is “twined(!) in bindweed.” and what honesty in admitting, “I am not ready…yet.”
such a straight-forward and honest (again) poem.
when the time comes…
“Forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past.” -Anne Lamott
The lure of organic peaches fresh from a desert river valley led us to you hoeing your garden with surprising energy. We thought the evening before was memorable, but nothing compared to seeing you in your garden and then reading this poem. Thanks for your open heart about your life.
Joe and Linda
Hi Joe and Linda,
Thanks so much for your kind comment, for coming to visit the orchard, and for all your thoughtfulnesses on Saturday … I hope we meet many many times, with great respect, r
This one shines, a keeper for sure. I love all those short lines in the first stanza; they generate the hesitance for me, that chop of emotion — then, as the lines grow, so does the honesty, and the details cultivate this. And that last line, so perfect, though it has been said before, snaps with clarity. Bravo.