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
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
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.