When the world wearies and ceases to satisfy
there is always the garden. ~author unknown
By Cynthia Liepmann
You bring me to my knees —
in a good way —
I kneel in reverence
to your abundance.
I sink my fingers into your soil
planting, weeding, harvesting:
warm sun on my back,
chill wind biting my fingers,
or summer rain baptizing me
alongside the green ones.
The miracle of seed becoming
never ceases to awe:
a seed smaller than my pinky nail
becomes a bean plant that grows
as high as I give it to climb. Truly
it does reach the land of golden eggs,
in the form of baskets full of beans.
A seed the size of a comma
yields comely flowers
that delight my eye,
sooth my spirit,
and heal my body.
A potato buried in cool earth rots,
and in the warm soil of summer
becomes a community of itself
to be savored when cold winter comes.
A clump of compost scratched around
a newly planted tree produces
hearty vines and a cream-colored squash
that we relish when trees’ leaves turn
as orange as its flesh.
Hornworms as fat as my thumb—
works of nature’s abstract art—
feast stealthily among tomato leaves.
Frogs, like sextons in a church
adorned in their vestments of green,
clear out the riff-raff of bothersome bugs.
The mantis, always praying,
devours those who dare
to suck the life out of your plants.
Dragonflies dip and flit like angels
keeping watch over you by day,
and the bats do also by night.
I sing praises to your rhythms
and bow down in adoration
gathering your gifts in my hands.
Cynthia Liepmann (she, hers) is a poet, retired herb farmer and lover of growing food and medicine.
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