Erstwhile Island Gardener
       

When the red-leaf lettuce bolted
from neglect, the cherry tomatoes
rotted on their stems, & a murder
of crows murdered the blueberry bush,

she decided it was time to call it quits
with this venture into growing her own.
Because weeds. Because bending over
in hot sun. Because the terrible patience

required to watch over the progress
from seed to sprout to Here-it-is!
Not to mention horsetails. Primitive,
worse, ineradicable—unless, the master

gardener said, you dig a six-foot trench,
line it with heavy-duty plastic, border it
with stones, & pray to whatever gods
you think might listen. But the horsetails

would still be there. If you pulled them up,
they’d multiply faster than flies, glutting
the soil, sucking the water, choking
everything else. Better to plant timothy,

fescue, scatter wildflower seed, read
all the books you could otherwise read
if you weren’t out breaking your back
for fresh this or fresh that. Then drive down

to the farm, its stand laden with same-day,
maybe stop a while by the harbor to imagine
the white caps as white-flowering peas,
the water a field you could till with your fingers.

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Copyright © 2022 Lynne Knight All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission