my Father always toiled
at the earth
above the rocks
he kept our yard
a solitude
of quiet and play
a kinder garten
circled by the elm hedge
and shaded by the twin aspen
it was always home
and always work.

my Father always toiled
at our garden
on the verge of my perception
I appreciated it
vaguely
it fed us
nurtured our childhood
that an after school
carrot, cuke or tomato
was always in reach
and food
always just
tasted
good.

my Father always set me to toil
at our garden
transplanting me from cinematic delights
like a Bridge Over the River Kwai
or classic westerns
and afternoons of baseball
“Pull the weeds”
“Mow the lawn”
“Spread the mulch”
“Water”
rinse and repeat
“Do your chores, then play”
I’d later learn a weed
is only a plant that grows
where it isn’t wanted —
so I once took a weed eater
to my grandmother’s flower bed:
problem solved.

Every summer,
once school and baseball were done,
I toiled
in that yard
in that garden
completing my chores
making adolescent vows
that I would never
never
never would I
have a garden when I grew up.

And every summer (and fall)
bushels of tomatoes
cukes
and fruits
first the cherries
then the peaches
the pears and the apples
would magically appear
and I topped and tailed
scrubbed and picked over
peeled
and dawdled
and vowed
that I would never
never
never would I
can when I grew up.

And you know what?
that yard and the gardens
taught me
everything
under the sun —
certainly the folly
of adolescent vows —
and with each mustache hair
every callous upon my palm
my father
his lessons
his values
his talents
his love
grew into me
like a Scarlett runner
there was no escaping
the beauty
strangled there.

I always set myself to toil
every spring
I toil at the earth
spreading manure
mixtures hand spread
carefully
weeding the white strands
building a fortress
for my seedlings
my family
my heart
every summer
I set myself to toil
upon the land
tying my vines
planting the sunflowers
hyssop
nurturing a working
garden of flowering herbs
into every corner
vying for pollinators
tending to the new
shoots
the baby fruits
and with the first produce
and early harvest
our plates
turn green
our sweltering skin
cools
in salads
brought in
and upon the overflow
I toil
and store
remembering
my Father
preserving
seasons
and toil
for the winter
when I rest.

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).

Today’s prompt: Day Fifteen: “Today prompt … asks you to think about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents, and then to write a piece that explores an early memory of your parent engaged in that habit, before shifting into writing about yourself engaging in the same habit.”