Posts tagged gardens

The Desire to Live


The warmth of the sun propelled me towards my garden.

All winter, I had agonized over whether to even have one.


But the sun got to me, the 60 degree weather and out I went.

The grapevine needed to be moved-NOW. I didn’t know,


The roots were 6 feet long on three sides-what had I done?

I dug a hole for what I thought would hold the vine.


I dug up half my flower garden trying to save roots.

I replanted daffodils, some with buds, and stomped other plants.


They were trying desperately to peek above ground,

after a cold winter with a big snow only a week ago.


Spring does crazy things to me, It makes me think I am young.

I am strong-the girl in blue jeans and peasant shirts.


Then, a few hours later, I am struggling to make it to the house.

By July, all hope is gone, it seems. September brings a valiant cleanup.


Spring and gardens do something to me that I desperately need.

Somehow, we both have an unquenchable desire to live.


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We are One Soul

It’s been ninety years since a garden was tended in this place.  Apple trees lined a rutted dirt road that lead to  the grainery and  barn. Grandmother toiled there many days. On Friday, she burned the trash within the confines of a rusty old barrel. The other items went into a pit at the edge of her garden, broken plates and cups, empty jars, tin cans. She would toss a few shovels full of dirt onto the latest additions to the pit and forget about them.  Ninety years…there is little left to recognize in this field.

Now, her great-grandson is digging a hole for a new apple tree. The shovel hits chunks of coal and shards of broken ceramics, white and cornflower blue. Another shovel of dirt produces  tin cans, a soldier molded from melted lead, old glass jars with raised lettering. What was this place?

His mother kneels beside the mound that holds the memories of her grandmothers strong back and iron will. She thinks of her uncle as child, molding his lead soldiers. She sees her grandmothers soiled dress and ragged apron blowing around with each swing of the shovel.

“What is it, mom?” The young man asks when he sees the tear on his mother’s cheek.

The mother rises, wiping her hands on blue jeans with tattered knees. “Just thinking,” she sighs, “Of how life changes, but stays the same.”

A new apple tree is gently placed in the ground. The shards of yesterday rest once more beneath the ground. They walk together to the old house where their family has lived for five generations, past the old pantry on the porch and the oil lamp from the coal mine.

Somehow, for a moment, the past and present meld together. We are all one, one breath, one tear.

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