Garden Thoughts

I broke ground for my garden recently.
Broke, in fact, an ancient concrete slab
Strained to move the larger pieces
revealing clay and earth below
tight-packed with weight and years untouched.

I kicked and shoved the shovel’s blade
to bite into the clay,
levered up, foot by foot
to free the rich dark loam
to find the home of earthworms digging low.

Mixing in new soil from bags
and, turning to the hoe
I hacked each clump, each lump
and clod of thick pale clay
and earth, turning turning turning

Hacking, pushing,pulling
in my little garden plot
And my tired arms were heavy
and my back is sore.
But it is my hands that finally complained,
that had not handled a shovel in,
oh, these many years.

***

A slug has left his trace
before the lintel of my door.
It throws off glints and
gleams unevenly
in a long, shiny, wavering trail.

The girl I used to be likes slugs
(but only at a distance).
She decorates herself with sparkles
and store bought glitter
and does not know that slugs make glitter too.

***

I come out again the next day,
in the heavy afternoon
while my children sleep,
to set aside the rocks and the debris
I am as critical of lumps as a cook
whipping gravy.

I imagine some new-green tender sprout
fighting to rise towards the sun
and blocked by unfeeling clay.
I want to smooth the way.
And ease the sting of disappointed hopes.

Gardening, I have found, is about hope.
Preparing, planting, weeding,
each labor to it’s own day.
Each with the end in mind.

And yet, even should nothing grow
in my little garden plot –
these are still good days
And a good day’s work.
To do, and to have done.