My garden grows by itself, it has
to,
with very little help from me,
very little effort on my part,
no pulling of weeds sprouting
upwards and choking,
or feeding of carefully measured
fertilizer mixed,
or even watering, my conscious
watering rare,
only when I happen to think of it
and remember
to move the sprinkler a little bit
closer
to my thirsty flowers, budding and
begging for moisture.
It’s not out of neglect that I do
this, not doing what’s needed,
but out of my minimal gardening skills,
skills undeveloped
in my quest for the beauty of
flowers planted,
seeds dumped in early spring into
the earth churned
and fortified with organic soil, “fertilized,”
as recommended by the florist who
shakes her head at me,
at my attempts at gardening, to
bring beauty from the soil.
But though I follow the directions
printed for us non-gardeners,
directions written and followed,
carefully followed,
they are soon forgotten, and my seedlings
and shoots are left
to themselves in summer’s passing to
grow as best they can,
fighting the elements and
struggling against me,
and, somehow, overcoming us,
overcoming me.
For there is beauty in flowers
planted, life enriched,
life made beautiful, too, my own
life, even, despite me,
me and my gardening skills, skills
still undeveloped.
