posted by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
devohoneybee at 04:15pm on 28/06/2014
devohoneybee at 04:15pm on 28/06/2014Nematodes
I just ordered nematodes online.
I never thought I'd be getting mail order worms.
Gardens teach you things.
The lilac died.
Well, most of it. There's one scraggly little stem,
fighting on.
Do I keep watering, or buy another?
Are they interchangeable?
The apple tree, the Honeycrisp at the western side,
burst into Spring with flowers, and the bees found it,
and behind each bloom, a tiny fruit.
"Take them off", she said.
"It's like teen pregnancy. It's just not ready. You can keep 5."
I kept 10.
Every day I come home from work
and water the planters out front
from the bath I had that morning.
There are 3 tomato plants in the flower pot.
From the compost, probably.
And now I'm waiting for a bucket of worms.
The garden is full of the unexpected.
Some things die, and others appear.
You can't be attached, but you *can* wonder.
You can even give thanks, for this fragrance,
now, wafting up from a blossom, from lavender,
from mint, thirsty at the end of the day, holding you to account
with it's shriveled leaves, as if it's never been watered, ever,
no never, until the next thirsty gulp plumps it out again.
And you can wait. For mail order worms.
For the late, self-seeded sunflowers.
And for Honeycrisp apples, come Fall.
I just ordered nematodes online.
I never thought I'd be getting mail order worms.
Gardens teach you things.
The lilac died.
Well, most of it. There's one scraggly little stem,
fighting on.
Do I keep watering, or buy another?
Are they interchangeable?
The apple tree, the Honeycrisp at the western side,
burst into Spring with flowers, and the bees found it,
and behind each bloom, a tiny fruit.
"Take them off", she said.
"It's like teen pregnancy. It's just not ready. You can keep 5."
I kept 10.
Every day I come home from work
and water the planters out front
from the bath I had that morning.
There are 3 tomato plants in the flower pot.
From the compost, probably.
And now I'm waiting for a bucket of worms.
The garden is full of the unexpected.
Some things die, and others appear.
You can't be attached, but you *can* wonder.
You can even give thanks, for this fragrance,
now, wafting up from a blossom, from lavender,
from mint, thirsty at the end of the day, holding you to account
with it's shriveled leaves, as if it's never been watered, ever,
no never, until the next thirsty gulp plumps it out again.
And you can wait. For mail order worms.
For the late, self-seeded sunflowers.
And for Honeycrisp apples, come Fall.