(c) Melba Christie 2018
Every spring I try to plant a beautiful garden like the ones I have seen in magazines. No sooner I plant Begonias, Calandula, Petunias and Pansies, our resident cottontail rabbit and occasional visiting deer snap up the fresh or new blooms.
The rabbit loves the clover that grows wild and free in our backyard. Clover is a weed but I cannot bring myself to stripping it because it has very dainty white flowers and because I too love the green leaves.
Therefore, my garden is composed of large ceramic pots. I have resigned to the fact that I may never have a garden except for the improvised one on our deck.
So what does Stanley Kunitz have to do with my want to be garden? Nothing really. Except that Mark Doty once described how Mr. Kunitz would walk through his garden “paying strict attention to every inch of it.”
I too thought about Mr. Kunitz’s visits to his garden. My grandmother never left her house for years except to step out into her small garden. Hers was a real garden. She talked to the flowers and plants; she claimed they would grow more and bloom more robustly.
Thus, I wrote a poem about her love of nature and especially her garden.
Grandma only felt safe in her garden
the lavender plant soothed her soul
and helped her cope with her phobia.
On a few occasions, I heard her sing
to the tiger lilies. They leaned and seemed to listen.
She stood very still as if she were watching out
for prey like the cottontail did on the grassy lawn
there were no prey to speak of
no one would ever harm her
but she listened carefully to nature’s sounds and warnings
every morning among the daffodils
She is gone now
and so is Stanley K.
I wonder if they stand together
in heaven’s divine garden
praying for us here on earth.
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