We are born,
We die,
And in between
We live lives
Of varying degrees
Of usefulness,
Our impact
Subtle or
Dramatic.
In our gardens
The plants
Are the same,
From humble weed
To mighty oak;
Born from seed
Or Adam’s rib
They grow
And live lives
Of varying degrees
Of usefulness,
Their impact
Subtle or
Dramatic,
Living to maturity,
One year or more
Or centuries,
Or felled
By accident, design
Or on a whim
By the gardener’s
Fickle fingers.
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So much to think about in your poem Cathy. I’m thinking of all the gardens I’ve had and the successes, failures, mistakes, triumphs.
Thanks Sandra – it didn’t take quite the direction I first thought but that’s often how poetry goes. And the title changed too as the initial draft was called ‘Life Cycles’. I have not written any for ages so was pleased to have managed this
As always, I’m impressed by your poetry, Cathy.
Cathy, you are a great poet. Your poem makes me reflect on life and on plants. Are we both not living beings? Life is a path, sometimes stone, sometimes soft, sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet. But we are always born, we grow, we make offshoots, we grow old, we die and we go to heaven or to the pile of compost. Greetings from Margarita.
Much food for thought here of things we often take for granted. Nice poem, Cathy.
❤️ I love this ode to gardening; it’s whims and accidents too.
Yes it’s definitely the gardener’s fingers that are fickle Cathy and not the plants 🙂 Thanks for treating us to a new poem.