Natural order is in disorder.
Problems crack open like chicks from eggs.
Gardens wither in the shadow of neglect.
I cast the problems to the wind
thinking nature takes care,
who am I to interfere?
I flee west to dance on mountains,
where the gods’ gardens grow without my help.
Sun bleaches clean, rain rinses despair.
At home on the flat land,
vines choke delicate blooms,
weeds squat in empty beds
of nutrient-starved soil.
Stooped in defeat, the plants curl into themselves
and break my heart.
As payment to sun and rain
the healed becomes healer,
tending with tools, rich compost, and the sweat of debt.
Heal me, nature,
so that I may heal my garden of neglect.
Thirty days’ penance: dig, pull, yank, trim, turn, prune, nudge, drench, wait
Stalks and vines, heavy with fruit, offer thanksgiving and reward.
Leaves reach upward to caress the sun and cup the rain.
I collect the offerings in gratitude.
I thank the sun and wind and rain for nourishment and restored health.