Gardner’s Gentle Yield
In the quiet dawn of my garden’s long season,
My eyes cast upon the hands which once wove Eden.
I stand next to the roses I once coaxed to flame,
their thorns now gentler than the ache in these hands.
Once I bent the earth like a lover,
turning soil to silk with fingers swift as rain,
weaving hedges into emerald topiaries
that drew every wandering eye to pause.
My garden breathes my name in every bloom—
the peony bow in white devotion,
the clematis remembered every knot I tied,
The wind sways Cranesbill with wild abandon,
and passersby might linger at the sidewalk
whispering of paradise made flesh by mortal will.
But time, that patient pruner, has come for me.
My back no longer bows so low without protest,
my knees whisper warnings like dry leaves in wind,
and the spade grows heavier than the years it helped me carry.
The wildness creeps now where order once held court;
weeds wave like old friends I cannot refuse.
Yet see how graciously the garden teaches me:
the maple does not rage when its branches thin,
but offers shade still, deeper for the sparrows.
The burning bush unfurls in autumn’s crimson
without demanding summer’s endless fire.
I need not wrestle every root or chase every fallen petal—
beauty lingers in the holding on and letting go.
So I accept, with open palms instead of aching fists,
that my hands have given all their gifts.
The garden remains mine, though changed—
a softer splendor, kissed by memory’s dew.
Let others tend what I no longer can;
I will sit on this weathered bench,
and watch the light play on leaves I planted before,
content to be the soul who loved it into being.
I will sit in calm repose,
and watch the doves and sparrow descend
upon my repurposed kitchen friends—
old companions now cradling water,
offering bath and drink in quiet grace.
For every flower that turns its face to me
still says, in silent grace:
*Well done, old gardener. Rest now.
You are still part of every root, every scent, every wonder.