kirkbyky
09-08-2004, 06:25 AM
You Weren’t Here.
You weren’t here in October when the first frosts came, quietly stealing across the ground to blacken the vines and kill the garden. Your hands freezing as you pulled metal cages, stakes and string from the beds.
You weren’t here in November as we planted the garlic, and sowed the winter rye to feed the soil, mulching heavily with leaves to protect the garden through the long, cold winter.
You weren’t here in December as we fought against the bitter wind to harvest the last of the kale and brussels sprouts, hoping that the mulch we had laid down was deep enough.
You weren’t here in January as snows blanketed the frozen ground and it seemed as if spring would never come again.
You weren’t here in February; those long, gray, monotonous days only occasionally broken by the delight of seed catalogues in the mail, bringing with them the dreams and promise of the coming gardening season.
You weren’t here in March waiting for the first thaw, pulling out chunks of sod as the ground grew soft and watching for the first signs of garlic planted so many months ago.
You weren’t here in April to stir the soil and awaken the earth, to plant the peas and spinach and to pull out the weeds that sprang up first.
You weren’t here in May after a record month of rains; stepping into the garden and sinking up to your knees in mud, yet still plowing on to pull the weeds and to try and find any bit of dry ground to plant the broccoli.
You weren’t here in June as the grasses grew tall and were mowed and raked into great swaths under the blazing sun; sweating hard to mulch and cool the earth, to prevent its thirst and keep the weeds at bay.
You weren’t here in July as the rains stopped and the hot drought set in. As the garden was watered bit-by-bit, bucket-by-bucket, hauled in by hand from somewhere else.
You weren’t here in August, during those cool 50-degree nights when we prayed for hot weather and despaired of our tomatoes so lovingly tended of ever ripening.
Eleven long months, and you weren’t here. And yet…
Here you are now. In the golden light of September, the month of the Harvest Moon, with your hands full of the bounty of someone else’s labor.
Through rain and drought, snow and thaw, mud and bugs we have tended this patch of earth only to have the fruits of our labors taken from us. Our corn crops picked bare, our peppers smashed, green and useless on the ground, our tomatoes thrown to harass the dog, the first red ripe ones we’ve been waiting months for, taken before our first bite.
But you’ve taken so much more than corn and tomatoes when you steal our food from us; you take a years’ worth of planning and dreaming, hope and hard work.
You steal our time, and a bit of the garden’s soul with each tomato you pick, and that can never be replaced.
Kyle
You weren’t here in October when the first frosts came, quietly stealing across the ground to blacken the vines and kill the garden. Your hands freezing as you pulled metal cages, stakes and string from the beds.
You weren’t here in November as we planted the garlic, and sowed the winter rye to feed the soil, mulching heavily with leaves to protect the garden through the long, cold winter.
You weren’t here in December as we fought against the bitter wind to harvest the last of the kale and brussels sprouts, hoping that the mulch we had laid down was deep enough.
You weren’t here in January as snows blanketed the frozen ground and it seemed as if spring would never come again.
You weren’t here in February; those long, gray, monotonous days only occasionally broken by the delight of seed catalogues in the mail, bringing with them the dreams and promise of the coming gardening season.
You weren’t here in March waiting for the first thaw, pulling out chunks of sod as the ground grew soft and watching for the first signs of garlic planted so many months ago.
You weren’t here in April to stir the soil and awaken the earth, to plant the peas and spinach and to pull out the weeds that sprang up first.
You weren’t here in May after a record month of rains; stepping into the garden and sinking up to your knees in mud, yet still plowing on to pull the weeds and to try and find any bit of dry ground to plant the broccoli.
You weren’t here in June as the grasses grew tall and were mowed and raked into great swaths under the blazing sun; sweating hard to mulch and cool the earth, to prevent its thirst and keep the weeds at bay.
You weren’t here in July as the rains stopped and the hot drought set in. As the garden was watered bit-by-bit, bucket-by-bucket, hauled in by hand from somewhere else.
You weren’t here in August, during those cool 50-degree nights when we prayed for hot weather and despaired of our tomatoes so lovingly tended of ever ripening.
Eleven long months, and you weren’t here. And yet…
Here you are now. In the golden light of September, the month of the Harvest Moon, with your hands full of the bounty of someone else’s labor.
Through rain and drought, snow and thaw, mud and bugs we have tended this patch of earth only to have the fruits of our labors taken from us. Our corn crops picked bare, our peppers smashed, green and useless on the ground, our tomatoes thrown to harass the dog, the first red ripe ones we’ve been waiting months for, taken before our first bite.
But you’ve taken so much more than corn and tomatoes when you steal our food from us; you take a years’ worth of planning and dreaming, hope and hard work.
You steal our time, and a bit of the garden’s soul with each tomato you pick, and that can never be replaced.
Kyle