~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal
<>
see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…
our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar
how I love the how-work of it; how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness
we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children
in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting
it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it
for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by
the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us
6/25/23
