The Work of the Garden

There are no minutes in the garden–
Only rows,
A measure not of time, but of task.
In the first garden, Adam was given the task of naming:
Zebra and musk ox;
Cheetah and gerbil.
He punched no clock, but poured out creativity, fulfilling his role.
Eve may have pruned apple trees for optimal fruition, but she wore no floppy sun hat.
There were no obligatory tick checks at day’s end.

In the garden,
without wasteful frenzy, the job gets done.
So when I say,
“I’ll weed for a half hour, and then I’ll come in and start supper,”
what I really mean is,
“Supper might be late tonight.”

And there I will be,
Under a floppy sun hat,
Soaking in bright afternoon rays which generate a heat amounting to just about what the tomato plants ordered.

The beets I replanted after torrential rain are sprouting,
but so are the weeds.

And those five rows of cucumbers…
I’ll hill two of them right now, and then stand in the shade to drink water
and admire the work. 

Is this how time will move and be measured in eternity?
In God’s forever garden?
When arms and legs accomplish what the heart and mind have conceived,
the hands of the clock will 
tick tock
no more.

All that will matter is the work of the garden,
The work our hearts and hands were made for.


With love from the garden,

Michele


 

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