The seeds themselves taught me how to garden.
The weeds showed me that roots need soft, loose soil.
The little nature spirits smiled upon my garden
and it grew.
I loved the shush-shush-shush of the sprinkler
in the early morning,
loved weeding in the cool of the evening,
as the skies turned softly azure,
till there was not a weed left,
the fat pet rabbit munching up and down the rows,
then settling beside me to doze, well-fed, content.
I remember Stephanie, age two, plunked down
beside the pea vines, shelling and eating peas,
the older kids in straw hats helping me weed,
complaining about the heat,
my Grandma, sitting underneath the grape arbor,
chatting as I weeded.
I remember bringing home small trees and bushes
from the nursery on my bike,
teetery fronds wavering in front and rear baskets,
me peering through the branches,
trying not to topple,
people in cars smiling at me as they passed.
How we all loved the garden's bounty:
canteloupes, watermelons, honeydews,
veggies bursting with health and vitality,
organic, fresh from garden to plate.
The grape arbor and several fruit trees
meant all summer was a banquet,
satisfying to a single mom trying to feed
her hungry children.
And, just like the garden,
inch by inch, and year by year,
I and my children grew.
for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Organic
My title is taken from a song we used to sing in coffeehouse days.