My Father Gave Me Gardens

My Father Gave Me Gardens

I see him squatting, fingers in the dirt, 

one hand holding a small trowel, 

paused to look up at me, smiling –

even in our unhappiest times,

with Wicked Stepmother / castrating wife,

when it became his escape.

But also when he was young 

and I was little, and Mum was 

up in the house cooking,

waving from the window,

and the sun shone

on our broad back yard….

He never got me to like

grubs and soil and sheer hard work,

but it’s due to my Dad that I love

hardy, bright red geraniums,

and wide round orange-yellow

calendula flowers we mis-called marigolds.

Because of him I know

that whether rhododendrons

bloom pink or blue depends

on acid or alkaline soil, 

that earthworms are essential,

pretty white cabbage moths a pest.

I learned the look and smell

of rosemary: small white flowers, 

dark green leaves. ‘Rosemary means 

remembrance’ he said (long before 

I encountered Ophelia). So I knew 

I was born gifted with memory.

I still know the long-ago taste

of tiny, fresh-picked strawberries.

I remember the hum of bees

thick around a bush in summer,

the feel of my bare feet on grass,

and what time of day to water.

Thanks to him, I don’t weed away 

dandelions, I cherish them; 

I relish the tangy scent

of the shrub I’m named for;

and every place I live, I grow

abundant red geraniums.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #47: Meme Madness at Poets and Storytellers United. We're invited to write about things we learned to love through loving someone else who loved them.