My Garden Will Not Save You

We've had a rough spring here on Dale Road. From a few weeks of severe health challenges for Ted, to an accidental flooding of our house, to three solid weeks of the neighbour from hell, it's been a difficult time.. I realize that millions of our global neighbours in Gaza and Ukraine and kind and generous families in Iran and broken-hearted field workers and hotel cleaners south of our border would give anything to only have our problems, not theirs. With that as a background, let's walk through the gardens this morning, knowing that they will not save us.

Early ever-bearing raspberries are starting to ripen.

The pollinator plants which I've sprinkled throughout the vegetable garden are doing well now.

Chives have finished blooming and the poppies that seeded themselves are taking over in the colour department.

We will have zucchinis to share on Wednesday.

Just think of all the little cells that needed to grow beside each other perfectly to make this fragile beauty.

Borage are now blooming. I'll sprinkle some in the bags of salad greens for a tasty surprise on Wednesday. If I remember to pick them.

For a while I was wondering if our tomato plants would survive their frosty start in the garden. Oh ye of little faith!

Something has been eating both varieties of beans.

That last of the spring Mesclun plantings started to bolt in last week's heat. I'll start some more for the fall in a few weeks.

We are trying some cucumbers in the greenhouse for the summer. I really should research density of planting.

And eggplants. This remaining beet from the mesclun mix that filled the beds all spring, will be picked on Wed.

More research needs to be done on what those black spots on the peppers are.

Our kitty was quietly watching for ..... whatever. It might be a great hunter at night. But, I've never seen it move in the daytime. 🥴

I love this particular blue. The clematis are doing much better than last year. I cut them back closer to the ground this year.

Can you see the shadow of the cucumber trellis on the stones?

We've harvested most of the scapes from these garlics.

And, turning westward, we have a nice mix of native plants and exotics this year. I haven't seen any monarch butterflies yet, but expect them soon.

In that garden, annual rudbeckias are beginning to unfurl.

I am so glad that I took this tour today. Red currants are far riper and bigger than I anticipated. Tomorrow morning's job will be to pick and freeze some of them.

In the blueberry shelter, we have a new floor covering: sawdust from the woodworking shop. That should slow down some weeds. I've had to weed this space twice this spring.

And, it looks like we will be getting a good blueberry crop.

I need to move these Japanese irises. They are not completely happy in the woods. Isn't that an elegant flower?

I hope our little walk through the gardens this morning did some good for your soul. It did for me. It probably didn't save you or me or save anything, but it touched our souls.

A weekly newsletter from the Irish poet, Pádraig Ó Tuama introduces me to thought-provoking poems every Sunday. A walk in the garden was in order after reading this one.

My Poem Will Not Save You - Dunya Mikhail

Remember the toddler lying face down

on the sand, and the waves gently receding

from his body as if a forgotten dream?

My poem will not turn him onto his back

and lift him up

to his feet

so he can run

into a familiar lap

like before.

I am sorry

my poem will not

block the shells

when they fall

onto a sleeping town,

will not stop the buildings

from collapsing

around their residents,

will not pick up the broken-leg flower

from under the shrapnel,

will not raise the dead.

My poem will not defuse

the bomb

in the public square.

It will soon explode

where the girl insists

that her father buy her gum.

My poem will not rush them

to leave the place

and ride the car

that will just miss the explosion.

Many mistakes in life

will not be corrected by my poem.

Questions will not be answered.

I am sorry

my poem will not save you.

My poem cannot return

all of your losses,

not even some of them,

and those who went far away

my poem won’t know how to bring them back

to their lovers.

I am sorry.

I don’t know why the birds

sing

during their crossings

over our ruins.

Their songs will not save us,

although, in the chilliest times,

they keep us warm,

and when we need to touch the soul

to know it’s not dead,

their songs

give us that touch.