garden thoughts

 
By some miracle
and human will
a naked, lifeless gravel quarry
can become a flower garden
full of scrubby shrubs,
riotous blooms,
fluffy blossomed trees
in shades of pink and white,
forget-me-nots crowded at their feet.

I drink the fragrance
as we stroll along.
I make the people stop
so I can smell the hyacinths,
touch the glossy leaves of camellias
and the damp moss
on gnarled branches.
A giant, drooping cedar
(the floppy sheepdog of the tree world)
reaches down as I reach up
to shake its hand.

People become impatient
with my need to sense it all,
my slowness.
I pick up a fallen petal of giant magnolia
so I can feel its soothing
leathery coolness
while continuing to move
at the prescribed pace.
They chuckle indulgently,
pretending to understand
as they reveal their ignorance
by rushing me along.

Suddenly
inexplicably
I miss my mom
and her reverence for nature
and the way she would actually listen
to the shapes of flowers
and marvel with me
about the way forget-me-nots
come in different colours
on the same plant.
I bring the magnolia petal to my lips--
it feels like cold skin.
I give it a kiss
and drop it among the cedar's roots.