standing in the kitchen exhausted
I watch the evening light
illuminating her angry face
angry because we were late
and beautiful because
she can’t help but be
when I picked this arugula
I had no idea
there were acorns involved,
stacks of dishes
it was unclear if the yellow ones were ripe.
were they a new variety?
I usually forget to label the plants
when I put them in the ground
and I have to return to my notebook
filled with notes on seed starting
mixed with lists
of tomato varieties
and basil in the same tray –
a few poems between the lines,
and smudged ink from tears
knowing I was planting the seeds
of tomatoes he would
Yesterday I felt so sure.
I stood there, in the morning kitchen light,
taking photos of him,
And here he is, filling the frame,
in all his baby, toddler, unselfconsciousness goodness.
But today, I don’t feel so sure.
I’m questioning the light
and how I spend my time,
and all this reflecting I do.
What do I do?
I stand here, admiring him
This is what the “lawn” looks like after six weeks away.
And the garden is a jungle. But at least there is kale growing in the jungle. And lots of garlic. Oh, and volunteer plants I would have weeded out weeks ago. How I love the volunteers. And so they get to stay. Nasturtiums in the garlic beds. Cosmos in the onions. Calendula everywhere. Hundreds of borage plants for the bees.
The garden is wild. The children have not brushed their hair in days. The puppy is happy.
The chickens are settling back in.
And sometimes Amabel and I spend the morning collecting beautiful bits of plants and arranging them just so, creating this lovely, yet rather pointless assortment . . . instead of weeding, but . . . it’s lovely here, in the jungle, isn’t it?