Gardening is about moments.
The holy moment when seed sprouts leaves and begins to feel its way to sun.
When red dagger peony stems break frozen free and arc toward future fragrance.
Fading always, something alive
And living always, something fading.
And these come to tell us who we are.
Blowing leaves and trimming grass are weekly heard, rarely observed.
But buds bursting,
mites and rust and drought and freeze
these enemies I fight daily for the glory of one blossom; For one tree on a clear day, shining gold and singing.
Those who pay loud men to tend
You, I pity.
Bringing to red ripeness one single fruit, Inhaling one silver sage Rewards beyond time toil freed.
In the planting I embody life.
In the death of all green I am the chill of the grave to which all go.
There is some new company
where you pay men money to mix your ashes with a sapling or young tree for planting.
Why pay more?
Our bones too will roll to roots.
Our hair, nails, skin and sighs will be wrapped in the earth.
We live on in the flowing of what is and shall ever be till the end of the world.
The sterile shrubs illuminated
will keep their secrets from you.
But take one packet
and you will sense the Mind which made us of earth, and the place that you have in this world and in the World to Come.