The impatient gardener

The impatient gardener,
Meticulously tending her crops,
Picking at the weeds, which are constantly sprouting.
But from a mixed bag how to know which are weeds and which are crops.

The impatient gardener is plotting,
Making a plan, and laying it out,
Designing a future and the fruits of her labor.

But the rain doesn’t fall and her plants, as well as her plans seem to wither.

Now the impatient gardener is laughing at the weeds,
Laughing at the clouds that block the sun,
Laughing at the rain as it falls, or doesn’t
Laughing at the soil and its reluctance to push forth a sprout,
Laughing at the seasons themselves.
Laugh at the garden;
Laugh at the gardener.

It is better than beating the soil with your fists,
Demanding that the seeds grow.
The sprouts I could see weren’t growing fast enough.
The flowers weren’t budding or smelling sweet enough.
The bees weren’t pollinating or suckling enough,
And the fruit wasn’t ripening.

Laugh at the progressing shadows creep
moving across the land.
Laugh while the flowers track the sun
across the sky to the horizon.
Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener;
it is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.

Forgetting what a gardener does:
You clear the land and prepare the soil.
Trace out your rows and stake your claim.
On hands and knees you dig your trough
And one by one or in handfuls you cast your seed.
Cover them over, water and wait.

That is the most important step,
And one I always forget,
Because I am in impatient gardener.


…And then wait.


And wait.
Weed, water and
Wait.


Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener,
It is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.

Like an herb garden they are fine and delicate.
They need the most sensitive of care.
Like a vegetable garden, each will bear fruit and nourish another.
Like a flower garden, they will bloom and smell sweetly,
Making the world a more beautiful place.
But like a forest, each one starts small and fragile.
An oak cannot be trampled,
But, if nibbled as a bud or a sapling it can be damaged.

Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener,
It is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.
Demanding that the seeds grow faster.

I thought I planted herbs, but maybe I am growing oaks.

I’m waiting.

Someday they may replace the sky.