If anything has died in your summer garden
already, it is not too late to replant it. I wonder
why insects feast on some greenery not others.
If the devoured gave up their existence for the
good of the whole or just let go in futility. I am
not an attentive gardener come summer. I revel
in spring magic when small shoots appear and
tiny pots ready to plunge into earth, infinite in
trust, boundless hope. I begin the course, attempt
to plant properly, not too close, enough sun,
wet or dry, varying blooms. I try. Every year
something dies, needs a replant, and volunteers
make merry. I am not in control. So I loosen my
grip of what I fancied. In relief I remember to
watch and water. I let go of perfect lines and
bloom times. Relax with sweet peas as they
tumble from a tower too short to accommodate
their exuberance. A stand of daisies lift
immaculate manes to the sky, golden eyes bathed
in sun’s rays. Lavender spikes provender for bees.
Snaps pop in surprise, last year’s grateful nod to
my loosened grip of precision. Parsley seeds drop
a vow to return. Oregano spreads spiced wildfire.
Tall lanky stems not yet ready to reveal, I wonder
what exactly I planted. Weeds and tufts of grass
allowed as sage opens its palms between walkway
cracks. It is not neat and tidy as I contrived but a
splendid design, a wild expression of grace. My
garden grows flamboyant unfolding, myself
sublime as I surrender to the passionate Divine.