George Held
TO MY GARDEN
Each spring I find you overgrown with weeds
I didn't pluck in October when I picked
The last pepper and left you derelict
Until next March, when I returned with seeds.
But first I performed Herculean deeds
With pitchfork, spade, and hoe, loosening the packed
Earth, turning it over, like Teutonic
Forebears striving to meet their table's needs.
All the while, I call on the genii
Loci, prayerfully seeking their good grace,
For lacking that, no matter how well I
Prepare my soil and plant my vegetables,
Care for the seedlings of comestibles,
My crop will be at risk in this charmed place.
My crop will be at risk in this charmed place,
For the spirits have at their disposal
A host of diseases and animal
Warriors to conquer my garden space:
Sow bugs and slugs, beetles in carapace,
Borers and cutters, and supplemental
Apocalyptic types form the arsenal,
With wilts and rusts and rots, like anthracnase.
So, Indian-style, I parcel three seeds
Out to each hole—one each for Earth, birds, me—
And reverently I water them in,
Then patiently await the first green blades
To shoulder their way above the soil line
Under the spell of local deities.
Under the spell of local deities
We struggle to survive an anxious spring.
Will rain be what those lowering clouds bring,
Or sleet, or will they blow away, just tease?
Wed to what's organic, I use no sprays,
But give a diatomaceous dusting
And hand-pick the insects that do not sting,
Till late summer brings drowsy days of ease.
All the while I feast on what we have grown—
sharp radish, crisp greens, sweet peas, succulent
squash, pepper, tomato, and muskmelon—
Until the first frost leaves fruit limp, stems spent.
Then I leave to spend the winter in town;
Next spring I'll find you with weeds overgrown.
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