In the Garden

Published in The Long Arc of Grief  (Finishing Line Press 2019)

I finally made it back to the garden,
the one I planted under the alders by the creek,
and then let go—
back to the strangle of ivy,
back to thistle and hemlock and stinging nettle,
the survivors with their bitter roots.

There is little trace of my efforts now,
reminding me how I
first thought this place an untamed jungle—
hacking back the pampas grass and
woody manzanita,
digging up the German ivy by its purple roots,
until my spade hit a rock,
and then another, and another, in too neat a line.
How I brushed off each unburied stone,
uncovering a lost border of river rock,
and then a second tiered above it.
A double strand of great, gray pearls.

It was in these found beds that I first laid my garden.
Borders of pink impatiens, clusters of coral begonias.
But the transplants would not take.
It took me years to figure out why,
despite the spongy earth
under my feet, and
daily eruptions of dirt,
making manifest the animal industry
below the surface. 

Years of trial and error—
More water, less water.
A bit more sun, a bit more shade.

Years of digging, of discoveries—
A glass jug (supporting the whispers of a still.)
An alpine birdhouse.
A doll head.
A tea cup impossibly unchipped.
A bullet.

And in some spots a strata of shell,
marking the remains of a shell mound—
ancient cook fires and gardens,
dreams and tears under my feet.

Years of surrender—
to the indoors
to the necessary
to age
to grief
to the wildness of nature.

And yet, across uncertain ground,
like some decennial migration,
I am drawn back to what was and was and was the garden—
now an ivy mound,
and under the ivy,
bent ferns shouldering the weight, and
under the ferns, cool earth,
and a surprise of coral,
unfurling from dark, feathered leaves.