Today I walked to the garden, pushing little Ramona in her stroller. The lettuce and onions and beets are thriving. We hold our breath over the turnips and kohlrabi while the leeks I planted indoors slowly bend and wither.
We are having mixed success in growth. As my family of three grows toward the light, for a moment we blossom as we tend our woody and withered hearts. In the deep blue evening, final birdcalls hang in the air with the winding song of a neighbor’s violin practice. The breeze is sweet and chill after late spring rain. I whisper for Jane Kenyon’s “patient gardener/of the dry and weedy garden” to come, always and again, to the root of this family and breathe warmth and water upon us.