Saying Goodbye

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,

and what the earthworms thought 
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"

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