Turmoil and Solace in the Garden

In these waning days of June, a few poems about the healing powers of a garden.

Last autumn, 2022, I promised myself I'd use the usually mild winter days to clean up my wilding garden. Mind you, it was my goal to carve one piece of our acre into a somewhat formal garden … as formal as that can be in Nevada … to replace the lawns diligently groomed by the previous owner. The Winter of 2023, however, dashed those plans with deep snow that remained from December to April.

To say that gardening in Nevada is a challenge is the grossest of understatements. It tests the will of the most ardent soul, especially if one tries to make a formal garden. Nevada's a wild and woolly place, still very much the Old West in its people and environment. If the sage doesn't encroach back into a cleared space, the winds over the Sierra Nevada range will introduce new flora from California. Yet, each Spring I dive into the fray and do the best my aging body can manage. Shaking off the shackles of English or Persian expectations, I follow a friend's advice: weed selectively. And thus it goes and rewards with surprises and a healing bounty … at least for a brief and precious season.

Weeds

Foxtails choke my lavender

Weaving up through roots and stems

To wave their sassy feathers

In open rebellion.

Their blades slice my fingers

Muscles cramp after a day

Of yanking them with vengeance

And tossing them in the bin.

My selective weeding flusters me.

I like the foliage on that weed

Growing beside the walk,

But what blossoms will appear?

Will it retain its springtime glory

If I transplant it near the vine

Or turn into some monstrous triffid

Spreading evil through the year.

Which mysterious volunteer

Will look better over here?

And then there is the mullein

So soothing in my cup

But a horror along the edge

A few seeds cast a year ago

Have formed a sturdy wall

As high and wide as a hedge

But I don't want it there

And I certainly can't use it all.

Only after weeks of pruning

Clearing, burning, resorting

To the dreaded Roundup

Only when new plantings come

And thrive in their new homes

Raising their textured foliage

And radiant disks into the light

Will I feel satisfied. It was a good fight.

That's the reward for rotting hips

Twisted lumbar and knees

That betray my stability.

Only when I gaze upon a garden

Fresh with dew and alive with promise

Do I know that all that work

Was worth my effort and the pain.

Sacrament

Standing over a stoneware plate

I thumb loaf ends into crumbs

Separating seed from bread

Sparrows in trees

Chatter impatiently

Awaiting this treat.

I remember young elders

In the blush of priesthood

Bending to this same task

Their Saturday night revels

Forgotten with prayer.

Silently, we waited in pews

For this weekly nod from God

That all was cleansed and clear.

Finches don't require forgiveness

And chickadees don't really care.

Nor do they know the hand

That provides this bounty.

For me, it's tribute for the songs

That ring the morning air

A desert thrush stands upon

The power pole, an ugly thing

That provides him a stage

He trills each melody

He's heard since birth

And visits my tray of bread

My simple thanks for all

The arias he sings.

Four a.m.

The crescent Moon scrapes away my nightmare.

A lone cricket pulls the final threads

Of mayhem from my mind.

Casseopoeia, Scorpio, The Dipper

Even the Milky Way

Barely blink through reddish haze

Is it smoke, light pollution,

Or my aging eyes that dim their glow?

Only the Moon dominates the sky.

A rooster pierces the silence with his robust voice

The maestro leading a choir of cockerels

In their rasping counterpoints back and forth.

A sedan whispers its doppler scale

Down the road to white noise.

Then a truck growls against the assault

Of another workday. Its complaint

Rumbles toward the highway and beyond.

Traffic such as this did not exist a year ago

When the valley slept until sunrise

And the donkey in a yard a mile away

Whined for his breakfast.

I scan the four directions of the dark.

A cold universe awaits the time

When I will join that unfathomable wilderness

Its vast beauty relieves the fearsome dreams

That steal my nightly rest.

Summer heat drapes my shoulders

And I return at last to my bed.

Smudge Stick

I wander into my garden where

Sage and echinacea grow

The sage is oily, pungent, strong

As I slide my fingers along its stems

And rub my face and arms

Its spice rings around my nose

And fills my brain with sweet dreams.

Asking for a sprig from each bough

I bundle them with mint and rose

Lavender and a twig of rosemary too

Then wrap them artfully with care

So each flower shows its beauty.

For a week the bundle dries

Until its smoke can cleanse my room

And drive away the demons there

That stir me from my midnight peace.

And with a prayer and gentle plea

That only a god would hear

I implore the Universe to help me

The smudge stick wafts its own

Sweet voice to sing its silent song.

Maybe It's July

A malaise sets in on the first day of July

As the smoky season starts and all the weeds

Grow extra high and thick in the perfectly

Landscaped garden that I tackle each year.

The afternoon zephyr brings the seeds

Upon its breath to choke the lavendar

And the daisies curl under the heat

Like a calendar of fate that feeds my fear.

I feel weaker as June's freshness disappears

And the long days lag and flowers sag or die

I tire of the effort it takes to hold back tears

I must have some disease that makes me cry.

So I squeeze in to see the doctor, do the labs

And tell my story of how my summer's hopes

Dwindle to a dismal end. She checks the chart

Hears my heart, and scribbles in her notes.

Finally she declares in a tone

That asks the question, why.

"I see nothing wrong with you.

Maybe it's just July."