If You were a Garden
If you were a garden
You'd plant yourself with poetry,
spread seeds in fine lines,
work the earth
with your bare hands,
feel the pulse of seasons.
You’d rock yourself to sleep
with the sound of rain,
harvest and sow
together,
so the earth would
always be productive,
each fruit a seed,
each squash filled with promise
of new plants.
When the drought time came,
You'd let my fields fall fallow,
and wait.
You'd be a riot of color,
fragrance, taste!
You'd plant lavender and lemon verbena,
rainbows of poppies.
You'd ply yourself with seasons of
sage, basil, oregano,
and be aware of thyme.
In winter frost, You'd dream of spring's
new shoots, and in spring's first daffodils
You'd see the deep shades of fall.
Always you'd be ready for mystery,
and the delight of unexpected miracles.
You'd feel the power
that drives the plant to fruit.
You'd work and you’d wait,
and love those fine lines and rounded seeds,
those deeply lobed leaves,
billowing colors,
of our gardens
yourself.
From Heidi and Jonathan
heidi swidenbank
19th September 2007
