My Stolen Garden
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Never felt obliged
To ask the soil for her thoughts
Before I planted my seeds
Watered and weeded and fertilized
With hands guided by my heart
Not only do I doubt
If she would have given consent
I honestly don’t know
If she would have welcomed
My yearning soul into her home
Of warm, brown earth
Softened by sun and rain
Breathing only precious beads
Of dewdrop dreams
And autumn leaves decaying
Into the depths of her tenderness
Never once did I feel the need
To ask this loam for permission
To plant the flowers and vegetables
The fruits and scrumptious herbs
Which gave me so much sweetness
To feed my palette and vista
I wonder what she would have said
If I’d only asked, possibly pled
For the chance to plant a seed or two
Give into the soil’s longing for compost
To nourish her and give her sustenance
Cuisine made up of manure and muck
Meant to provide her with nutrients
Food to enliven, enlighten and brighten
Her dreams of good things so she’d thrive
Still, I remained silent in my guilt
Stealing her dirt with my shrubs
Never giving her the opportunity to say
If she was ok with my cultivating
Plowing and growing in her reservoir
Of soft, warm soil meant for a nursery
A garden of hopes and dreams and ideas
Gentle lights fading into the shadows
Behind the oaks and pines, where I grew
Truths that remembered to pray
For the sunshine and the rain
The food that would sustain
My stolen garden, grown without consent
From the heart of the earth’s glorious gifts
Copyright © Regina Mcintosh | Year Posted 2021
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