When you walk in the front door
the walls of your house
feel constricting,
instead of welcoming.
The same old chores call you—
endless cycle of dish washing
and the sweeping of floors,
pulling you into the dutiful circle of sameness.
So you turn, walk down the hall,
step outside the back door
into the garden sanctuary,
and in that instant,
you are truly home.
Shaded, green, full of tall peach and apricot
and fig trees,
tomato plants and basil and yellow squash in pots.
Thunder rumbles and you work alongside it.
Bend to the tarragon, cutting stems to bundle and dry,
tie beans to wooden stakes so they continue to climb.
The rain falls elsewhere, as you dig the soil and think
of planting cosmos in the last open spot,
the way they will push through the ground,
their fairy green growth, their tightly wound buds
opening to reveal a simple circle of petals
holding hands around a yellow center,
to thank you
for putting seed to earth.