A great gardener I will never be, because I don’t insist on order and don’t like being in the sun. Luckily gardens have a will of their own and are driven to do what they do – produce. Enjoy the poem and fresh organic produce.
I am Squash taming.
Like toddlers who have found their legs
squash needs redirecting
as they wander and climb
onto pepper plants
and invade the dumbstruck rhubarb.
Cabbage can hold their own
flapping whale-tail leaves
to ward off the naughty roamers.
Tomatoes and potatoes
have outgrown their play pens
all hands and long leafy arms
that reach for my knees
as I tip-toe through
their log jam of foliage.
A spray of grasshoppers
flutter and click at my disturbance
of their lace-making.
Cucumbers like free-range chickens
lay their gherkins in the woven vines
and all places they should not be,
under the beans, in the kale.
They’ve bowled over the carrots
whose greens form a cresting wave
rolling toward sunlight.
They’ve been insufficiently thinned
because it’s hard to waste a good carrot green.
They make good pesto after all.
The asparagus fronds in their circle
wave and sway to get my attention.
They invited in all the neighboring weeds
until the house party is out of control.
Weeds like beer cans littered everywhere.
There are darlings in the garden
who behave and
keep their hands to themselves.
Peas on their monkey bars
climb and coo and overlook
The borage in an edge spot
no one else wants,
happily grows large
and generously feeds
bees and hummingbirds.
Armed with my hoe
to ferret out the snakes
and prod the morass,
I venture in.
Gently, slowly I look
for hidden treasures.
Little by little my bowl fills
with surprise zucchini,
(four of them),
a handful of beans with chipmunk nibbles,
curled bananas peppers,
pea pods, squash blossoms,
and young and old rhubarb spears
that will fill out my black current pie.
All in all
the unruly crowd has done its job,
has squeezed out buckets of plumb fruit.
Now, what to do with all the broccoli?