Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
I
stood there in the thick, milky dusk,
my
boots bedded in rotting straw and the withered
bodies
of plants that I had dug into this place.
We
tended each other for a season.
I
knew them by touch and smell,
and
how slight variations in color or a pucker
of
leaf were words wanting understanding.
I
came here to learn to listen.
The
tomato hornworm caterpillars visited,
and
the cabbage butterflies,
and
we shared,
time
and other things.
Wings.
I’ve always wanted a pair, or two.
When
I was on my knees,
I
wondered who had stripped this land raw,
and
why so much of this practice
was new to me at this age,
was new to me at this age,
and
what the earthworms thought
about while navigating
about while navigating
the
valleys and ridges of my rough palms.
Could
they tell how much I adored them?
Oh,
yes, these were the musings of summer,
thoughts
freed while the mind
had
the luxury of abundance.
This
though was Autumn. It was Autumn waning:
As
I looked into the night to come,
I
saw a cricket lying down,
frost
crystals colonizing his legs.
Goodbyes
needed to be said.
A
garden can teach us to be earnest with this word,
Goodbye.
At
the interface of starvation
and
nourishment is where to harvest
the
roots of deep gratitude.
And
so, I began to offer this word to the yet-living,
letting
the growing sense of emptiness
be
my understanding.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
And
again,
“Goodbye.”
Inside,
the
woodstove was awaiting me.
~ Jamie
K. Reaser, Author
Published in "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Feel free to share
Published in "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Feel free to share
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