Garden Dreams

Garden Dreams

Each year, we plan a bigger garden. He and I
sit with grid paper between us, plotting the future
of zucchini, squash, beans and kale. We dream
of home-canned pickles gleaming on our pantry shelves,
the juice bursting from the first ripe tomato,
picked in summer heat, popped directly to mouth.

I tell him we need to dig to put up the kind of food
we'd like to feed a growing family well into winter.
Our lot has plenty of potential.
The front yard may be torn up and tiered,
the back alley bullied and rebuilt into beds.

My husband agrees: Grow more, grow much more.
We used to think that way about everything.
More vines crawling in the dirt behind our house
more tiny hands and feet padding in our home.
It's easy to dream on paper, before
you have to pick up your shovel, and dig.

Last year, I told him: No more children.
When I was younger, I thought there was enough
room in my house, in my life,
and in my heart, though I tremble to mention
how very full it is now, how I'm not sure
of its capacity for more. I wish it was larger.
I feel the soil beneath my hands crumble;
needs water, and I rise in the early morning light,
looking for something to give it to drink.

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