Found Faithful

In despair, or in delight, be found faithful.

My sixteen year old son, on my back in the above photo so many years ago, gave me a pack of seeds for Christmas, a variety of potential wish-dreams from arugula to zinnia, some of which I think will actually grow in this locale. I was delighted with the thought behind it: he recognized my past labors, and in thinking of what I might enjoy, remembered me in a garden or two.

To this point, I’ve left every garden I’ve planted. Every soil I cleared, weeded, amended, dug into, planted, transplanted around, divided and harvested from, and sat in the midst of, breathing in the musky earthy smell while watching chickadees flitter upon tree limbs reaching into my space. I hope those gardens are flourishing, but they are probably choked with blackberries by now. Or covered over with grasses and morning glory. Or tangled within tattered trellising, bits of rebar, flayed landscape fabrics.

For that is what I find now, in the field here, the plot behind the house we purchased last fall. Neglect has …