“The Gift of Gardens”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 21, 2024

Garden by Delaina Hammon Scholes

“The Gift of Gardens”

Gardens are those places between heaven
and earth where things grow and things die,
where weeds can take over if the gardener isn’t diligent.
Our father taught us that gardens are places where

young boys and girls learn to work by hoeing, watering,
weeding, and dropping packaged seeds into perfect furrows,
some deeper than others, depending on the size of the seed.
We all wondered why Dad dropped moth balls

in rows of peas. He said, “Keeps the worms out.”
We clandestinely eyed each other when Dad wasn’t looking,
wondering whether moth balls mingled with pea seed
really killed worms. But in the end, we never saw worms

crawl out of peas shells. Dad’s gardens always had cucumbers,
various kinds, spreading their vines out of their rows
and across the garden and encroaching other rows,
even climbed the corn stalks. We built tomato cages

out of 2” x 2” scraps boards and placed the baby tomatoes in dirt
up to their eyeballs and watched them rule the garden, pushing
limbs and fruit between the gaping holes of the cages,
understanding tomatoes have minds of their own.

We planted rows of corn in two-week intervals for a staggered harvest.
Then, we waited for things to sprout so we could watch water
trickle down each row, licking up dry dirt, pushing sticks
and such to the end. Often, though, we made pea boats

helped them along, too, digging a tiny furrow, watching
the water lap with laughter as it hustled down the row.
Gardens are also places where raspberries thrive in the sun,
beckon the pickers in the early a.m. to strap on

gallon cans to belts, gingerly grasp each berry, place them
like tiny babies among their sisters, while forever thinking
of fresh raspberry jam on Mom’s homemade rolls.
Yes, gardens are where we all learned to work,

early mornings in the shadows of the barn and later
beneath the heavy Idaho sun. Even today, I still can hear
Dad’s voice, his whistle, and sometimes his yodel as we stand
straight up, leather-gloved hands on hoes or shovel handles, looking

admiringly at the garden and the carrots still trying to grow.
In the end, gardens are those places where God decides
what lives and dies, what is eaten, what is frozen,
and what seeps back into the ground and waits for another year.