Gardener’s Song

When I plant the seeds,

I pack the dirt back hard.

When the garden comes up,

I spit on the greenest leaf.

When the tree bears fruit, black thread

through its branches frightens

the birds,

keeps them away.

Against hail: verbena.

Against lightning: laurel.

I’ve got nothing against the moon,

the moon stays in the sky,

nothing against the wind,

the wind can be kind,

but against your ardor,

O surrogate of the air—

I’ve got apples, a seckle pear,

the knife left gleaming here.

To cut them open,

as you do us—

and peer inside them,

as you do us—

O moth, O seed, O spider, O worm—

As you do us.

Gardener’s Song first appeared in Shenandoah, vol 54, number 3, Winter 2004.