ghosts in the garden

my great grandma had a favorite flower –
moss roses, or portulaca, small and
pink with hard-scrabble vines.
and my father’s rough fingers dug deep
into soil every year, dropping
shells into earth,
springing up corn and
tomatoes, pumpkins and
cabbage; flowers for a greater
purpose.
they are all there, still,
somewhere in the garden,
smiling in the earth,
as new seeds find purchase.

Winter

I cannot survive another winter, here.
In Spring, I plant the hard-shelled seeds
and watch the fingers erupt from the earth;
In Summer, I pluck the flowers, the fruit,
the fragrant things,
the offered vittles,
and in Autumn,
(that most loathsome of seasons),
I watch the vines curl, the leaves
prune and blacken, I
see the fruit molder,
fluffy mildews, crown-rot,
fireblights;
the vibrant greens drain to brown,
to gray,
Drooping at every frost
like sickly children.
I think,
I cannot survive another Winter, here,
and long to see the Spring.

In The Garden

I am alone in the loveliest way
twining petunias in my hair,
and cupping the showy begonias. I am
full of love in the loneliest way,
the way that wishes to share and
show something wonderful with another.

I am learning to be with others,
my tongue seeking out syllables though
it is not used to the cadence.

I am learning to be by myself,
and there’s nothing harder
in such a beautiful garden.