How gardened was the plot where I grew?
I know the source of the germinated seed.
What beyond that?
The sunny, rich soil
is my heritage.
There seemed no busy gardeners.
How then did I grow?
Who told me when to branch?
And is blossoming
merely of a season?
How helped the gardeners
in the growing?
I remember a gentle
and consistent presence.
I saw a knowing
nod from time to time.
And I thought I saw pride
in shy glances.
I basked in loving warmth.
But each day I remember
I did it all on my own.
Why then the gardeners?
If I was their first crop,
why were so gardeners
so confident
as to benefit me
from tender, loving neglect?
And who tends the garden
in my Fall?
Now I garden.
I knew my seeds.
I planted them
in sunny, fertile ground.
I gave unconditional love.
I talked to the plants
in gentle tones.
And I admired the fruits.
Where did I learn to garden?
Is this what we took from Eden?
What makes the flower bloom?
And what of those that wither?
How is their plot gardened?
Where is it written,
this growing the human crop?
Am I what the seed knew?
Am I what the gardeners knew?
And do I stop my gardening
in my Fall?
Who will then garden my plot?