DIANE M. LABODA
Strawberry Gardens Forever
Playing in the garden with John Lennon
is a psychedelic dream of the later 1960s—
“Let me take you down” where living is easy
and nothing is real, as long as you close your eyes.
It’s not much different today—
we’re out in our gardens, we’re taken away
by the music we pipe into our ears, we’re
attending to the political rhetoric and Cyclospora
symptoms and numbers, and sometimes
we just have to close our eyes to the world,
because nothing seems real.
Nothing seems real. We’ve never been here
before and we’re winging it. Scientists
and doctors speak truth to us, as do “pillow” guys
and medicine women who conjure alternate/crazy
theories. It’s enough to write a Sci-fi novel.
I myself believe only in the garden, the
Strawberry garden where nature speaks in ever
reliable cycles—tomatoes grow to plumpness,
bean stalks grow tall and gravid. All creatures
live in harmony there without conventions
or banners or straw poles.
Rainstorms are always welcome.
---
Listen
It’s spring and we all sprung forward
while listening for bluebirds’ twitter,
peepers’ peeps and skunk cabbage
yawning and stretching skyward.
I listen for the sound of rain drumming
on the roof instead of the insidious
softness of snow’s whisper.
I listen to the wind carrying winter
away and dropping it on emperor penguins
and unsuspecting Argentinians.
I listen for the whisper of the woods
saying we are one, you are one—
one and one make harmony.
I listen for crocuses to croak,
daffodils to laugh and tulips
to whistle their tune.
I try to be quiet and listen for the sound
of grass screwing up its courage to leap
out of the ground and become a meadow.
I listen for the brook to gain strength
and tumble instead of babble along
like a babe in the woods.
I listen for soft voices of the spirits of the woods,
telling stories about vernal ponds, salamander dances,
meadow mash-ups and bursting buds.
I listen to my heartbeat to make sure I’m still
viable, upright and mobile—all I can muster
until the sun charges my photocells and puts
a glint in my eyes again.
I listen for anything that will override
the chaos in my head, calm my nerves
and soothe the beast that overtakes my soul.
---
Raindrops
Listen, open your ears. Don’t run, don’t run away.
The footfalls you hear are raindrops that patter
among the pebbles, light of foot, blending
air and earth, running away.
The damp smell started minutes ago
foretelling this shower. Now the rumble signals
the faraway thunderhead—persistent,
powerful, but nothing to fear.
The ground around you has turned into
a shallow pond with raindrops rippling
and pocking the surface. In places it flows,
not away, but into the woods.
Every branch, every leaf is pelted into
bobbing around comically to this forest
percussion. They dance a slow jig, unafraid.
unselfconscious. They dance.
Light comes in dim patches, punctuated
by flashes of sheet lightning—just enough
to silhouette every tree, every bush, every
structure of man, your eyes.
It is then I let the patter take me into
meditative joy, that I am here on my log
and you are dancing in the shadows, showing me
you’re strong and nimble and watching over me too.
---
Time is a Garden
I look forward to planting a garden,
opening the earth and nurturing
the smallest seed into a verdant plant,
one that bears fruit, that will one day
be my lunch, sustain me.
At first the going is slow, growth takes
time, effort, water, love. As with all
youth, I think there’s all the time
in the world for this growth to happen.
And so it goes for days and days,
One day I’ll notice that plants seem to
have spurted up overnight. They’re now
mature, flowering, talking among themselves.
And I’m no longer in their conversation.
I’m no longer the growth master.
At that point, time seems to speed up,
just as it does for adults of a certain age,
a certain ripeness. Next thing I know
blossoms have turned to fruit. The fruit becomes
the color of age and wants harvesting.
As the sun beats down, as clouds gather
and rain, as I grow past bearing age,
as my garden matures and fruits time slows
again. I feel like the tasty green beans, just
past prime, past my best taste and color.
I’m ready, brave enough to be plowed under,
feed the earth, no longer needing more time.
---
“Growing Season” Post #18: Four Poems by Diane M. Laboda
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