I haven’t reblogged a poem in a while, so here’s a little beauty.
I gave up gardening the way an old person gives up the things they once loved- bit by bit and complaining all the way. I watched as my echinacea fried and the iris were crowded out. Vegetables were a fantasy. I couldn’t tilt the rotten water out of the concrete birdbath so even that had to go. I’d drag my embarrassing legs up the front steps and grouse over my shoulder at the garden, “Fine. Do what you want. I never loved you anyway.” My popularity among the neighbors waned.
Every few months I noticed the garden had not fucked off as I had often suggested it do. My nursery-bought mosses died and plain old moss stole over the humus and fashioned knolls and glens between the stepping stones. I thought I was the author of this garden. I poured my energy into it. I thought my energy was rain…
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