In the garden works a woman,
in the woman grows a fear,
in the fear lives a truth,
in the truth is an ache.
After some time
of pulling weeds and
deadheading flowers
and before the rain begins,
the ache has sloughed
enough layers to make
it more easily seen.
On its own, the ache
is not so large. When
the woman meets it
between the sunflowers
and snapdragons,
the ache does not disappear,
but somehow it no longer
consumes her, it simply
is as she tugs
at taproots, removes
yellowed leaves.
The world is so much
more alive than the fear
would have her believe.
As day goes down, she
tends the soil, she speaks
to potatoes, to basil,
to kale. There is no seed
for peace, yet it grows here,
the peace of green leaves
and dark earth, the peace of
nightcrawlers, moss and bees.
She speaks to the plants
as she moves through the
rows, and knows ease.
*Inspired by Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things”
