Season After Season
The garden beds never existed
twenty years ago where a sloping
hill begged to be cut into by an old man
in a bobcat, while younger men
With shovels and levels laid stone blocks
across the yard with precision
and speed, like a kid building
a lego wall for the umpteenth time.
As youngsters we ran carefully through
the new garden, leaping on one stone
circle after another placed in no
particular pattern by my father,
While in between young flowering plants
and herbs and shrubs learned
to adapt and prosper in the rich soil.
Season after season my father
Experimented in the garden,
purchasing deer resistant perennials
from the nursery, using his spade
to plant the new and rearrange
The old, pruning in the Spring
and deadheading in the fall,
raising them as if they were
his second set of children.
In midsummer we visit with our own
little ones who love to hop through
the fully mature garden, abloom
in shades of red and green,
Yellow and purple, blue and orange,
with barely enough room
for anything new, still babied
by the man who raised them so strong.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
