Ode To My Garden

It knows not the heavy toil
it takes from within my
humanly fragile body
to give it rich, nutrient soil.

Soil procured by arthritic hands
dark, luscious and filled with minerals
to assist you as you grow fauna
and flora to cover these lands.

Lands taken, not given, not gifted
from those who valued your worth,
honored and thanked you, their
voices daily in song to you lifted.

Lifted above the glowing rows
of maze you taught them centuries
ago to plant and harvest to feed
livestock, horses, humans and crows.

Crow’s bring warnings of bad
weather, scarcity, war and death from those peoples whom you offered aid
to, food to, friendship to, what you had.

Had they embraced these Tribes
so different from them, I’d not be kneeling in my sweet suburban oasis,
but out on the prairie with pride.

Pride I have for you little garden,
struggling to fill my world with beauty
and grace as your stems and stalks
dance in the wind for your warden.