CATHERINE OWEN

An Abecedarian for the GardenAlas I know so little about gardeningBecause, raised by busy parents in the suburbs,Crops were mostly bean sprouts on the counter top, yetDigging is cathartic and once you gouge out a square,Earth’s muck beneath the useless grass, you may as wellFlick a few easy seeds from their bright packets, yourGround rich, riddled with plastic bits, dreams, notHarvests, just a ripple of fierce green tipsInching. On the prairies they say don’t plant before May, butJune could also be nippy with slush, or hard rains thatKill all the full sun needs. Little ambition, mostlyLove - of beauty - sends you to greenhouses, garden centers, toMail-ordering trees that arrive as freeze-dried sticks,No hope they will soon yield. A putterer, you’reOpen to positing, randomness, seeing what happens when,Posing what ifs to the soil, weather, location, engaged in slowQueries. The former owners planted bitter cukes, a thatch of irises,Red tomatoes that stayed green in downpours, becameSpectral by fall - mainly, they built raised boxes, then moved.The now is up to you. What remains, what you’re quicklyUncovering mixed with decisions regarding futureVisions - happy accidents, imagined glories and the ever presentWeeds you cannot pull, entirely, drawn always to the free and wild amidXanthisma’s spiky blooms, a plot of broccoli, peas in their twisting climb,Yarrow against the dandelion, perhaps some carrots, two shades of kale,Zinnias down every border, the generosity of zucchinis and (why not?), a rose.
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