I learned to garden from my mother

who didn’t garden.

She believed nature took care

of that sort of thing.

What didn’t find its way to blossom

or fruit; of its own accord

wasn’t meant to be.

She raised me the same way.

My personality, introverted, wary

a sensitive willowy weeper, to her

was as troublesome as an invasive species.

My garden was born from sand.

The first year I spent spring and summer

digging holes, picking rocks,

pulling roots, mixing soil and finally;

planting sixty-seven native New England

perennials. Salty creative juices

flowing from my pores.

Once all were placed, carefully

inside their muddy thrones

crowning green potential

I panicked!

What if it’s all wrong?

Autumn was the season of second guessing.

I extracted one plant after the other, tearing

tender roots free. Anger fueled my passion

as I dethroned and apologized to the victims

of my innocent ignorance. Promising

never to move them again, I pleaded

with them, not to die.

Some didn’t make it through my torment.

Cruel determination to get this right.

I listen to other women talk

about their gardens.

They make it sound so simple

natural and relaxing. They talk about

pregnancy the same way. Their glow

how much they love being pregnant,

a mother. Gardening.

I wanted my child like I wanted my garden,

until I heard him cry.

Before the nurse could hand him to me,

my innocent prince of broken promises;

before I looked at his angel face,

I told her to take him to the nursery.

Shocked as the roots of the plants

I tore from my new garden,

she took him away.

Our crucial beginning

violent interruption

we never recovered from.

Today my mother is alone. Surrounded

by easy to care for plastic flowers.

Dunk them into dishwater, a couple violent

shakes, and voila! fresh as can be.

The sweet smell behind the veil

of cigarette smoke, that smothers everything,

comes from a battery-powered air freshener

spraying perfume pollen, like pesticide,

into her tiny apartment every twenty minutes.

My son is thirty-three years old

and wants nothing to do with me.

I don’t blame him, he cried for my love.

Begged me not to leave him, but I did

again and again; I tore myself free.

Its late fall and although most gardeners

have already put their gardens to bed, I wait.

I wait until every blossom and bee and

butterfly are gone. I wait until everything

green is brown. I wait until all potential for

life is done, before I carefully cut, trim, feed,

and finally; put my garden to bed.