MONDAY: The Garden Behind the Moon


Copyright is held by the author.

It didn’t rain all summer.
Instead of water, my father used prayer
for his garden. Despite his friends’ laughter,
he planted spinach and lettuce,
countless rows of cucumbers
in beds lined up meticulously
ignoring old people’s warnings
about the drought.
Every afternoon, he pushed his hat back,
wiped off his sweat,
and looked up at the empty sky,
the sun scorching
the acacia trees shriveling in the heat.
In July, the ground looked like cement.
Like the ruins of a Roman thermal bath,
it kept the vestiges of a lost order,
traces of streams long gone.
He yelled at me to step back
from the impeccable architecture
of climbing green beans,
the trellis for tomatoes,
although there was nothing to be seen,
no seedlings, no tendrils,
not even weeds,
just parched, bare ground —
as if I were disturbing
the hidden sleep of seeds.

  1. Beautiful. So profound. I could see the father planting the seeds and the parched ground. And feel his hope for achievement. Thank you

  2. I like: “the ruins of a Roman thermal bath,
    it kept the vestiges of a lost order,”. The poem could be speaking of climate change and future of the planet. Lovely poem.

  3. I have said often that this site needs more poetry, and this poem justifies my belief. Well done. Wonderful rhythm. Word play and so much more.

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