Annuals

She replants the Holy Basil every year to use it in medicine. You could see her staining her knees in the mid-summer compost, and you could ask her about her patience, and she would tell you that one winter is enough harshness for some plants and can’t you understand that. She sets a radio down by the gate, tuned to the classical station, and she wades out to whisper secrets to the seeds and to touch the sprouts with the right softness that they may grow.

The secret to a patchwork garden is simple, sad things. The stepping stones at odd angles are so unnatural, as whose hands are new enough to fidget in bedazzled concrete, but they breathe more love in imperfection. Spiders smile at handfuls of beetles every hour, and meadow voles scavenge freely, without fear.

She tucks a frizz of grey-white hair underneath a woven hat, and she hums to Janacek. Watering cans are heavy again, and her bones haven’t been this exhausted since she was eighteen. But peace is the greatest rest, and the age-weary rocking chair nods to the weather on the crooked porch.