How long ago ... and yet how vivid the memories of those childhood summers helping in the garden that my grandparents had each year.
I'm sure I wasn't much help in those early years. That came later, when I had the stature and muscles to be an effective weed chopper.
Oh, but I still recall how hot and steamy it was there ... how a bit of shade and a drink of water did seem to be so far, far away. But, as the poem indicates, those memories are still valuable to me ... I still treasure them.
Of course, memories tend to lose their rough edges over time. They become smooth and shiny ... much like the blade I remember, chopping those weeds, loosening the soil to help retain the moisture the plants so sorely needed.
The poem:
TOMATO PATCH
I found no poetry
in the tomato patch,
drone of a horsefly
drilling the silence,
drops of my sweat
salting the soil,
my hoe dispatching
smartweed, with shade,
a drink of water
so far away. Why,
then, do I miss
that seasoned handle,
so glassy-smooth,
sliding in my hands,
that dark blade
worn thin and shiny,
glinting like
treasure in the sun?© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: glinting
in the tomato patch,
drone of a horsefly
drilling the silence,
drops of my sweat
salting the soil,
my hoe dispatching
smartweed, with shade,
a drink of water
so far away. Why,
then, do I miss
that seasoned handle,
so glassy-smooth,
sliding in my hands,
that dark blade
worn thin and shiny,
glinting like
treasure in the sun?© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: glinting
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