As you know, dear reader, I am trying to ready my house for selling.
I’ve been packing, hauling, sweating, heaving, sorting, tossing,
stressed, sleepless, harried and hassled,
weary, bruised, and cross.
It’s been a long dark tunnel with a tiny light at the end.
My son called. Also a gardener.
They have so many plants left over from the plant sale —
he’s planted all he can —
would I take some?
If you are a gardener, you heard my gasp.
Wasted plants? All those cramped roots longing to stretch?
Gardeners are irrational
so I said sure.
I have so much to do and am so close to being ready to list
but I said sure.
And we had some perfect June days.
I sank my knuckles into the dirt
brushed up against the tomato leaves as much as possible
cooed over the poor cramped marigolds
fussed over the red onions
introduced the new jalapeno to old-timer daylily
pictured the banana peppers next the cherry tomatoes come August
basked in the brief respite from the world’s chaos
and my own
and now have the prettiest little kitchen garden you ever saw.
Planted
— go figure —
for someone else.
In pungent symmetry
