Garden of Weeds, Basil, and Hope

Garden of Weeds, Basil, and Hope

By: Joy Ortiz

Four years of neglect

Made my garden surly. 

She refused to lie barren,

Instead covering herself

With a blanket of crabgrass. 

If I wouldn't plant her,

Then she would plant herself

With whatever came to hand. 

I found her almost unrecognizable. 

Where once grew tomato plants 

As high as my waist,

There remained only a skinny volunteer or two,

Fruitless and small. 

Her neat rows of black plastic

Had succumbed to the weeds they once fought,

Defeated at last, and

Buried beneath tangled lawn. 

We mowed over her for four years. 

I had mostly forgotten.  

Still there lived

A memory

Of what she had once been,

Of what she could be again

If only I would remember her. 

Autumn came, and I stumbled across 

A gardener. 

He was my neighbor. 

We had a long talk

About seeds and straw,

Beans and beets,

Soil and cilantro. 

I remembered my garden,

Her beauty and bounty,

And I yearned to restore her. 

My neighbor volunteered to turn over the soil

So I could bring her back to life.  

My heart swelled with joy

As I watched him walk back and forth,

Back and forth,

Tilling the earth for my garden. 

All winter she slept

As my belly grew with my second child. 

My four-year-old daughter and I

Picked out seeds

To plant in our garden. 

We looked forward to spring,

To soil, sun, and

A new little sister. 

All three came at last, but

I did not plant my garden. 

My neighbor tilled the soil again, but

I had forgotten about

The fifty-pound Sulcata,

Digger of holes,

Pacing sentinel,

Devourer of plants, and

Certain death to anything green and unguarded. 

The yard was his summer home;

My garden had no fence. 

Alas!  The tortoise must be kept out

If the garden was to have a chance 

At rebirth,

So I did not plant. 

The fence became a hurdle. 

Whenever I looked at my garden,

I saw the fertile, black dirt

Waiting,

Yet I did not build a fence. 

In May I birthed my second daughter. 

As each golden day passed,

Spring gave way to summer. 

My garden grew weary

Of waiting for me. 

She began to knit herself a new shawl

Of green crabgrass

To cover her nakedness. 

Had I abandoned her

Again?

I had the best intentions,

Yet days and weeks

Slipped silently by me

As I nursed my new baby,

Mothered the four-year-old,

And holed up in my house. 

One day in July,

I could stand it no longer. 

"I have to build that fence!"

I didn't have much of a plan

As I marched into the yard. 

I only knew 

That it must be tortoise-proof. 

I gazed around for inspiration. 

My eyes landed on a rusty scrap pile,

A stack of garden shed pieces

That had never become

Anything of worth. 

I strode over to it

And began pulling it apart. 

Out of those repurposed parts

I built my fence. 

My husband and his brother helped

Dig holes, plant oddly-shaped posts,

Drill through sheet-metal,

And fasten it all together 

With plastic zip ties. 

When we finished the fence,

It was a zig-zag Frankenstein,

A crooked, rusty, ugly metal wall

That cut my yard in two. 

My neighbor the gardener

Rewarded our efforts

By re-tilling the soil

To give me a second chance. 

I covered my garden's face

With pink yarn lines

To mark her rows. 

I planted her with marigolds,

Beets, broccoli,

Tomatoes, squash,

And basil. 

Then, I left her. 

I had built a fence to protect her, yet

Something was still missing

In me. 

I planted her with hope, yet

I retreated into the house,

Neglecting to water her. 

No black plastic or straw

Warded off the invading weeds. 

They crept in between the rows,

Crisscrossing the smooth, black earth.  

Rows of baby beets sprang up,

Then withered,

Dying of thirst beneath the sun. 

My tomato plant languished. 

Everything was stunted and small

Except for my one success,

If you can call it that:

A pot of basil

Split into four plants. 

They alone flourished

In my thirsty, choking,

Lonely garden. 

I would visit frequently

To cut spicy leaves from their stems,

Taking what I wanted, and

Giving nothing in return. 

I used her. 

I gave my garden life, then

Starved and neglected her. 

Still, she gave me gifts

Every time I bothered to visit. 

Did she value

Such an existence?

Did she remember 

Her days of splendor,

When I had cared

And given her much?

Did she recall

How I had watered each plant,

Counting the seconds

Before moving on to the next

Just to make sure that none missed out?

Did she sigh and shake her head

When I would hop the fence

And cut her basil

Like a thief

Instead of a gardener?

And what am I?

And what do I want to be?

Yet I'm not ready to give her up. 

Though I starve her and leave her,

I love her

More than an idea,

More than admiration of someone else's garden.

Though I neglect her,

I remember her glory days

And long to return, 

To bring my daughters

And care for her again. 

I long to be

With her. 

Together. 

She is hope. 

She is life.

I will buy more seeds for spring

And if she takes me back,

I will stay. 

First Garden

First Garden

By: Joy Ortiz

It all started as a swath of lawn. 

The sunniest spot in my yard

Begged to be a garden. 

I was pregnant with my first child

As I knelt and planted

Tomato after tomato after tomato plant,

All of the peppers,

Rows of seeds,

And hope

In the freshly turned soil. 

I cut long rolls of black plastic,

Laying it between the rows to smother 

Any trespassing weeds. 

I waited. 

Spring melted into summer, and

My garden bloomed. 

Tiny yellow blossoms gave way

To swelling tomato fruit

That grew as my belly did,

Expanding with new life. 

Tiny peppers grew. 

Green-fingered jalapeños and

Lumpy, bumpy bells

Abounded in my beautiful garden. 

Broccoli and beets,

Onions, lettuce, and green beans

Climbed out of the earth

And spread their leaves beneath the summer sun. 

When the tomatoes ripened,

There were more than I could even pick. 

Basket after basket I hauled away,

Yet the fallen, split-skinned casualties of gravity

Littered the ground 

Beneath their massive parent plants. 

My garden was bursting with the fruits

And vegetables

Of my labor. 

A late September labor

Of a different kind

Brought me a different and even greater reward:

A daughter. 

As autumn drew a shroud

Over my first garden,

I held my greatest harvest 

In my arms,

Thankful for both. 

A Family of Roots

A Family of Roots

By: Joy Ortiz 

She is a girl with roots

Twisted and strong. 

They branch out,

Stretching away beneath the ground. 

You see her,

The young, scarred tree,

But do you know

What makes her stand tall?

She was a cast-off,

A whirlybird

Born, then flung away

From the parent tree. 

Through the air she flew,

Not knowing where she would land. 

She fell on the sidewalk

And into a hard, inhospitable world. 

How would she ever grow here?

She was small,

Vulnerable, and

Alone

Until a giant hand

Lifted her. 

She found herself gazing 

Into an unknown face

As the man,

For it was a man,

Carried her away. 

With a voice stronger than wind

And warmer than sun,

He spoke. 

"Well, little one!

You will never grow down there!

Let me take you somewhere better."

He took her to an arboretum

Filled with trees of every size and variety. 

Massive oaks,

Weeping willows,

Japanese maples,

Scotch pines,

Fruit trees,

Nut trees,

Trees tall and small,

Sturdy and delicate,

Deciduous and evergreen

All lived together in the garden. 

Each had its place

Like prized artifacts in a museum. 

Beneath each tree

A plaque bore its name. 

"This is my garden," said the man proudly. 

"Do you see all of these fine trees?

They were once cast-off, lonely seeds

Just like you. 

I found them and brought them here

To see what they would become."

The whirlybird

Gazed in wonder 

At the trees and the man

Who had planted them. 

She was speechless. 

"Here, my dear," said the man,

"You will become

A tree."

He knelt upon the ground.

With a gardening trowel

He dug a small hole in the sod,

Exposing the fine, black earth below. 

"Are you ready?" he asked the seed. 

She trembled

As he laid her in the hole. 

"Yes," she whispered, and

He buried her. 

Time passed. 

The seed began to grow

Roots. 

First a root named Mom grew

With father and brothers branching from it.

Next grew a root named Mom and Dad

With brothers and sisters

Stretching out from its nourishing center, but

A burrowing pest 

Attacked and devoured part of it.

Then it was only Dad

And the siblings who clung to him. 

There were grandma and grandpa roots,

Birth-sister roots,

A weak, sickly birth-mother root,

Friend roots,

Mentor roots, and

Church roots. 

Each brought the seed

Nourishment,

Stability, and

Strength.

Up from them

She grew. 

She pierced the dark soil,

Emerging into the sun. 

"There you are, little one,"

Said the gardener. 

He had been kneeling above her

With a watering can. 

"Welcome to the world, little maple tree."

Under his care

She grew and grew. 

She weathered many storms. 

Through drought and downpour,

Pests and pestilence,

The man cared for her. 

She began to branch out,

Reaching her limbs toward

Neighboring trees. 

Her leaves rustled with the wind.

Her trunk grew

Thick and strong. 

She became a home for birds,

A haven for squirrels,

A shelter from the rain. 

Beneath her,

Supporting her,

Growing from the heart

Of a whirlybird seed

Stretched her family. 

Not a family tree, but

A tangled,

Twisted,

Beautiful

Family of roots. 

They hold her fast. 

They give her life. 

Past spreads out below her, and

Above her

Only the sky.