I have always longed for a veggie garden
To be laid out like a flower bed:
Bordered with Chinese cabbage;
Polka-dotted with red radish roses (without thorns).
I’d arrange it in a circle
So that I could reach the dark spinach leafs,
“Heavy” with iron—for the blood.
Crisscross trellises three—
Peppers—would support in the center—
Plum tomatoes, too, maybe, we will see.
Still and yet: the passion of my life pulls up
My seedlings every time. They are not exactly:
So many inchworms apart. (He’s very smart.)
We do not discuss my wish for a master gardener’s garden.
Where the fowls of the air do not devour our seeds;
Where the seedlings are not sprung up, then withered, or choked. (St. Matt.)
I want husky “ears” of Midwest corn aplenty:
“He who has ears, let him hear.” (Matt. 13:9)
I would “byble—garden” my own plot:
Wheat and chaff grown up together;
Weeds are such a bother—
Burn the chaff when it is time. (Matt. 13:30)
“She, supposing Him to be the gardener, saith unto Him,
‘Sir, if thou have borne Him hence, tell me
Where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away.’
“Jesus saith unto her, ‘Mary.’
“She turned herself, and saith unto him, ‘Rabboni’;
Which is to say, ‘Master.’” (St. John 20:15–16)
“Then the same day at evening,
Being the first day of the week,
When the doors were shut where the disciples were assembled
For fear of the Jews,
“Came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto them,
Peace be unto you.” (St. John 20:19)
“And when He had so said, He showed unto them His hands and His side.
Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the Lord.” (John 20:20)
So is my heart gladdened as I dig my hands in dirt,
This blessed Easter Monday morn.
(Written on Monday, April 25, 2011, A.D.) He Lives!