In the Garden of Me
In the garden of me there is rich dirt
and an organized row of leafy greens.
There is the rope trellis to which I hook sticky,
spiral tendrils of sweet peas. There is lusty basil
and bright lemon verbena that has taken over
one entire end of me. There are weeds—
oh my goodness—are there weeds!
I pull what I can; leave the rest.
In the garden of me there is a large sand patch.
I think one year I made edamame work there.
My strawberries have never taken and my tomatoes—
unless cherry—are always sweet home to slugs. But,
I am learning to grow that which thrives best
in the soil I have been given.
With regular attention, my bush beans seem happy.
My arugula rocks.
If I go a little ways out from the vegetable bed
I come to that flowery tangle, that place
I could get lost for a lifetime of aromatic Sundays.
Under my tree, I lie in cool grass and inhale green.
I pluck blue bits from above for my basket. That
is the ground where sky and earth meet and find
a place to rest; a place where hummingbirds sleep
deep in the bower of my chest.