THE GARDENER’S STORY
Once upon a time, as the tales go, ripe fruit on trees in summer quenched our thirst and added sweetness to our family songs. We nested eggs on sturdy boughs and taught the young ones to trust the sky. Language was flutter and nuance and trills from the throat. Chasing a storm’s raucous drafts was our adventure.
My own memories are earthbound. I plant seeds and tend the garden and watch the trail of life unfold with different eyes than those that scan the world from aloft. Birdsong, though, excites me, and a tremor that runs across my shoulders nearly lifts me from the ground. In such a moment, I know the old stories are true.
And so, my charges are not only seed and flower, but also the creatures of wing. There is no reticence between us, rather a simple recognition that we are bound within an old and singular lineage.