Gardens Entwined

by Gail Davidson

GARDENS ENTWINED

Her red gingham dress swished out the door

to meet him, greet him, just before

he leapt off the school bus down our driveway hill

—he was six and she was four—

and with babe in my arms, we met in the middle,

at the side yard garden gate.

They climbed square, into square, into square

of a tiered strawberry tower, seeking what

sunny afternoons exalted:

five berries a day, the ever-bearing kind.

Not enough for a pie,

not manna to hoard, just enough

to savor the minute, the

moment, the goodness of the Lord.

That’s what I remember.

But now years have passed;

now I’m alone

on desperate knees in garden prayer,

digging, digging, gouging to find

what tears can’t bring back,

their youth I cannot hold,

for seeds I failed to plant,

and handmade towers

I let fall to ruin.

But daughter, what else do you remember?

Surely there were other days? Surely seasons came…

Well, yes; right as rain—

the wintering beds, like tohu wa-bohu, your Spirit hovering in quiet quiescence,

over springtime seedlings

and tendrils reaching,

unflappable curlicues with Samson strength,

wisp-delicate-whispered Word,

over summertime abundance—

its teeming mint and lemon verbena,

trellised conversations and cherry tomatoes,

the potato crops dug up like treasure, all

the sugar snaps they ate—

not one passed the garden gate.

Things grew and grew and yet still grew;

we weeded and tended and watered over

this land of milk and honey.

Even autumn beds did not forget

me, gradient peppers amidst final frosts.

I’m still with you sighed the gourds

as beauty faded was beauty beheld

and cool air cuddled linger here with Me.

And yet—

and yet—

it’s all too easy.

I fail,

I

fear,

and I

forget.

These raised beds now are barren tombs,

cold dust bowls of brittle bones,

and I’m searching them

for answers I’ll never, ever find—

their young adult struggles I’m forbidden to follow,

stony, mental paths I cannot till,

and prodigal beds which still

lie in wait.

These days, things

aren’t growing anymore;

these days, hope

isn’t showing anymore.

How I miss the sunshine

and certainty

of five berries,

when he was six, and she was four,

and the babe was in my arms.

Then flashed before me florals and feathers,

a bluebird warbling “tu-a-wee,”

clutching pinks and pansy petals,

a bouquet trinity.

“Remembering” doesn’t just look back,

but will “re-member,” put back together,

call to action you and me.

As you kneel before your empty beds,

as you place your trust in Me,

lean your hands into latency—

caress the earthen elementals, witness birdsong breeze,

sing moist lips’

contented hum over silent soil, dark as rum—

drink chalices of patient wait,

and steel your feet

in humus raw, for My fallow rest

begets vitality.

And I felt the soil loosen,

then I felt my soul loosen

like a glistening paradise spring.

My precious lily of the valley;

I’m your corolla, your flower’s core—

scenting you in heady perfume,

enveloping you in wisdom plan,

whorling you in pure white petals

of my belonging.

Daughter,

I am “re-membering” you,

weaving the broken pieces

of your flowering back together:

your mothering, your grieving, your praying, your dreaming,

your rejoicing, your solacing, your worrying, your teaching.

I glance down, my

chartreuse hands become deep tendrils green,

encircling mesh

with the vine that inclines toward the light.

Crimson tears fall from shears,

tender, yet rough, off the Pruner’s glove,

and white tears of eve blossom where

painful grace gives way to love.

Misty droplets baptize me in rain renewal

from above,

soften the dirt in redemptive dew,

plant my feet further down in hope,

and I feel the sun warm my skin as

the Son brings to life dead seeds within.

Daughter, I’m

not just in your garden, but you

are in Mine.

I persist in joy; you delight in the slow—

our tending is

a beautiful glow of adoration—

in watching each other, in watching things grow.

Let our dusty hands hold close

all those who sigh, who pray from parched lips

their Gethsemane cry.

Bear them image of Me, and “re-member” Me, from soil to sky.

I’m your gardener, your corolla, your life given freely;

you’re my clay, my lily, and sweet habat sheli.

Trust Me to cultivate children from root;

and believe, for all things,

I hold future and fruit.

I chose YOU as a gardener for summers and snow;

and I’m still training you up in the way you should go.

GAIL DAVIDSON

Gail Davidson lives on a country road with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. She enjoys everything outdoors—from gardening to strolling on beaches to hiking the heights. True to the sign displayed on her front porch, she, too, is “Delighted You’re Here.” Gail is currently working on a poetry collection for publication and writes about faith, hope, creativity, parenting, and more. She is honored to be published in the online literary journals The Way Back to Ourselves, Calla Press, and Vessels of Light. Follow her on Instagram @gailmdavidson.