of October
when geese fly over our driveway
in the morning
I always check their direction
making sure they're headed the right way
like, toward warmer climates, for instance
although today was warm
enough
to work up a little sweat
while shoveling earth
and making holes the exact size
of half-bricks
to border a garden
that still holds
my wife's vegetables and herbs
and suddenly the leaves fall
and quietly startle me
and the silence
as I work outside
the small moment of peace
that fell upon me
after a full week
of single parenting
now, too, the ladybugs
must be hatching
they come over me
as mosquitoes
with a small bite
and I constantly twitch
like a horse with flies
they are so plentiful
In order to finish the bricks, I had to pull out two Chard plants, unbalancing the two steady rows where they had grown strong and tall. I was surprised by the density and strength of their roots. What a hardy plant! So abundant. We could not keep ahead of it despite stir fry and soup. I felt guilty tearing them out, especially without my wife here to come to their rescue, or speak on their behalf. She cannot stand to throw away or destroy even the minutest vegetable. Should I cook these two plants yet tonight? Sometimes my wife playfully refers to me as "the constant gardener" - a name taken from a movie - some mystery, perhaps a Poirot? I remind her consistently that I am a slow learner. Seldom do I latch on to something without rubbing my nose in it experientially for a good while. Such is gardening. It takes me a while to wade through the discomforts and stress of the logistics - and to actually experience a garden in a full cycle - such as bring up a jar of grape juice from the basement in the middle of January, or eat green beans year round that we have frozen, etc. - until I start to be filled with passion and compassion about growing food in our yard.
