by Alex Norelli—
Over the past year of garden work I’ve realized something about gardening, It’s a lot of work! Even without the groundhogs picnicking on my tomatoes, the weeds as ambitious as the rain’s abundance, and most recently a deer breaking an entire limb off a young peach tree—even without those setbacks (i.e. the reality of gardening)— gardening is a lot of work.
So much so that I’ve been enjoying too little of the successes: the plentiful cayennes, the building of a fern garden, and the successful conversion of weedy plots into perennials. Once I realized that I was Gardening Too Much(!), I purposely took time to sit down and just look at what was around me—and use the other senses that are usually put on hold in order to muster the strength to haul another load of compost, or dig a hole for a tree. I can do all that later, I told myself, and I am glad I did.
AH, IT IS FALL
I wish I could show you how the wind makes the oats move, silk quietly—then rattles high above an open ear, in the crinkly yellowish tone of rustling dryness.
I wish there were some way to encapsul the lime tips of sunny viridian, and the brush of gold pulsation warming my cheek between racing purses of rain.
I wish you knew water far off, traveling to you on an aquatic—undisturbed channel—arriving to you unscathed, over a meadow too damp to interfere.
And I wish I could show you: the numerable tongues at home in their mouths, this world, close, inaudible, yet warm as the core of you.
And I wish you could have been there, at the instant of recognition when the leaves, so golden, appeared to be clouds.
And the branches leading up to them, so slender and dark, appeared tethers of smothered embers: charcoal holding another season at bay.