In the garden

In the garden,

I sow seeds,

seeds of hope and beauty.

In the garden,

I grow food and medicine.

In the garden,

my presence is love.

In the garden,

I am embodied, strong and lithe.

In the garden,

the noise of society fades to music of winged creatures.

In the garden,

confusion clears and suffering subsides.

In the garden,

I am being.

In the garden,

I am breathing.

In the garden,

I belong.

Here, I am flow.

I am capable.

I am whole and purposeful.

In the garden,

I am a sun-kissed,



goddess of life and death.


For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.


The tender leaves of the brandy-wine have grown cut and distinct

from those of the beefsteak.

They are ready to begin the process of becoming hardened-off

for the world outside.

Moving tomato starts from house to garden,

from perpetual day under ultraviolet light

to cycles of day and night;

exposing them to sun and moon shine,

to rain and wind–

acts of faith.

I blow them kisses,

I pray for their survival.

I remember the careful sowing of seeds–

the tending, the watering, the watching.

In three days, I will gently tease their dense roots.

I will place them in prepared soil.

I will intuit the pleasure of moving

from the boundaries of a small pot into earth expansive.

*I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women, 2006.