When her back began alarmingly
to creak, and all the earth receded far
below, she made herself a bench, a slat
of fir between two other slats of fir.
Her knees derided her presumption, so
she tacked a bit of carpet on, to ease
the landings when she launched them out and down,
hoping, as she did so, nothing was
missing: not the ho-mi, nor the seed
or seedlings in their flat, or soil she'd stolen
from the neighbors' molehills, baked and sifted,
nor the hose-end with its chilly hand
of brass. Any unpresent thing could send her
wandering from barn to potting shed
to kitchen counter, swearing at herself,
ending in her having yet another
cup of something, using up the morning's
bag of tea -- again. Gardening
is knowing what to do, and when, they say,
leaving out that bit about old brains
forgetting what to do about forgetting.
Web site of part-time Soto Zen hermitary in Eugene, Oregon