Every morning I walk into the garden,
even when there is little to see—only rows
of tiny sprouts and the earth just beginning to crack.
It is not so much that I speak to the seedlings,
though I do—to the slender green lashes
of carrots and the heart-shaped leaves of beans.
It is more that they speak to me in syllables
I feel through my fingers—speak of resilience
and tenderness, speak of the dark and beautiful
earth. There are so many days when I worry
that I am not doing enough—worry
that I could be more kind, more generous,
more loving, more vocal, more good.
But in the garden, pulling bindweed
and clover and salsify from the mostly empty rows,
all of my brokenness feels less broken.
It is somehow easier to forgive myself
for being who I am. And to mean it.
Easier to know myself as one of many.
Easier to believe that like the potato greens
I have so much more to offer that
can’t yet be seen, but it’s growing,
surely, deep in the darkness, it’s growing.
What a lovely sentiment–so nurturing! Thank you, Rosemerry!
here’s to growing in different gardens together, friend
Worthy of a Word Press re-blog!
thank you, Nan!
Being one with nature is soothing for our souls, just like your lovely, reflective poem which nurtures hope of seeing future growth. Thank you, Rosemerry, we could all use this reminder! 💜
Oh Joy, yes, I could use this reminder pretty much every day.
Thank you for this wonderful poem Rosemerry! Perfect x
Caroline, thank you!
again, what’s essential is out of sight, underground or forming there, in the dark
the dark, the dark, the gift of the dark … you and I know it well my friend
“Brokenness feels less broken”…that sentiment feels so healing to me. Thank you, Rosemerry (I love your first name as well!)
Anne, thank you–oh yes, well, brokenness and I have quite a relationship! And thanks for the comment on my name–it’s my two grandmothers, Rose and Merry … I feel quite lucky about THAT!
Lovely, very resonant
thank you, friend, yes, the garden has been such respite … always, and especially now