Gardens are not tended to by the gods; but by peasants,
by the lesser folk.
Where audacity sees a rut, simplicity sees a row.
A row for planting and growing. A row to do more
than a nine to five. To feel in touch with the ancients:
Those of old with spade and stone, tilling and tending.
There is something majestic about dirt-clad hands;
Hands ripe with the freshness of earth; the aroma
of genesis found in rich, dark soil.
It is back-breaking work; yet, it builds the spirit.
It gives air to lungs as the organic blood pumps
and fills the weary mantle called man.
It is found in its seasons, during its times.
Times of planting, of sowing and reaping;
When harvest eclipses the blisters of the hoe.
But, feet grow weary in and out of season.
Seasons are not as constant as you may suppose.
Volatility is part and parcel in the living words of the ground.
It tempts and seduces. It entreats and ensnares.
And we are thankful for it. We consider ourselves masters;
yet, we have served its cause.
We know something of it; yes, it is true.
But not enough to speak it; not aloud.
It is hinted at only in the humming of
the one who tends his patch of paradise.
He hums, not to himself, but to the wisp
of the scent of the divine; which,
hovers about him and drowns his labor.
It is an enchantment; one not to be explained,
only imagined and admired;
pursued, but never gained. Futility,
it has its own rewards. For its allure,
like the maiden sirens to sea-tossed mariners,
takes root in the soil-worker and beckons him
to taste her juices and her spoils. But, it all has a cost.
And he knows it. Only he can.