The Great Grief Harvest

 This season, I want my garden to die with dignity.

I want to be in charge of grieving its decay;

I want every blossom & basil sprig, cut from the root & cherished

Not withered & forgotten, anticipated yet unexpected.

Each morning, I look outside and wonder what has blossomed, what has decayed. 

Each day the painful anticipation of soil bare naked of life grows as fewer flowers bloom;

Except for atop the basil, & we don’t want that-

it tells the plant to start unbecoming; to start its decay.

There is no slowing this natural process, only attempts to savor every moment.

Savor every final sprig.

This season, my heart can not tolerate grieving another life

on a timeline out of my control.

I will be the one to prune the sprigs & each remaining bloom.

I will water them into the afterlife in holy tap water, & mason jars.

Cremate them into pesto and “I love you, I love you not’s, I love you”. 

I will be the one to decide the timeline of grieving

each seed sown, tended to, watered, witnessed, loved.

The creator becomes destroyer, turns deconstructed matter into pesto & bouquets

Looks at an empty garden, cries, then remembers next year

Remembers the importance of wintering.

Plants a few seeds which will lie dormant,

then most likely forgotten, until sprouts emerge in Spring.

In hopes I’ll be there to see it; in hopes, she will be there to see it;

She will be there to see it.