What gardeners become:
contemplative
sanguine
patient
genocidal
in service of their chosen.

What I love in my garden:
saskatoons, who rise early
dandelions, earlier still
that shaggy sense of wellbeing
presaged in first green lace
slug traps, like Mom would set.

Spring garden memories:
Grandma, tongue thick in English
sorrowing for strawberry time
in those gentler gardens she left
gumbo, skin-parching clay so cold
grumbling under hand and hoe.

Spring’s hard cold realities:
all winter, dogs use the yard
between door and garden
a gauntlet, and all this evidence
of their well-fed health and vigor
cannot be used as compost.

The thing that matters when faced
with rumours of micro-chips, forced
vaccinations and facial recognition
apps to cull and order, order and cull
as if to fence and sell the Song:
down in the corner, always a weed. – ams

Image courtesy pixabay.com