In May, the garden journal detailed

when peas were planted, carrots sown.

We tracked precipitation, germination, marveled

at the lengthening days.

Then spring, in all its anticipation

Of perfect harvest, gave birth to summer.

An unruly offspring, she danced

with sun and rain, hair unkempt,

barefoot, with dirt beneath her nails.

 

Dandelions took over in fields

of yellow sunlight.

Bees caroused among clover.

Chickweed and grass overran

measured rows of soil.

The broccoli bolted. Lettuce

went to seed, their blooming stalks

waving in the breeze like arms

at a free-love concert. Carrots cavorted

with whatever weeds would

have them.

 

Out of control, July lay waste

to maps of well-behaved rows of beets

and potatoes. Wild chamomile

wafted its scent of tea and pineapple.

 

Just as our children left

too soon,

and our bodies slowed before

we were ready to give up

gardening at midnight,

summer surprised us yet again

with its fickle

and riotous abundance.

 

Weary even of harvest, we set aside our hoes

to sit on the porch, sigh in surrender

and wait for the quiet

calming of September.