I never was a gardener. That niche
was filled by others in my family.
My thumb was tan; my body didn’t itch
to plant or prune or weed topography.
I didn’t savor earth beneath my nails,
no matter how my father made the case
for honest work and dirt. My pet travails
required words. My early favorite place
was in my room, to read or write a poem,
or out alone among beloved trees.
But now that I’ve arranged this cottage home,
and learned to slow my pacing by degrees,
I’m noting how divine the yard appears,
and daily tending it by hand and shears.