The whole world
has pictures, explosions
we hold in our palms
Side by side, we dig in the withered flowerbed,
the sudden warmth, and once again you say, See
how much the light has shifted. I nod my head
at another changing season, our aching knees.
Sarah plants a butterfly bush
for the purple, nectar-rich splendor in a pot.
Hannah wants some pink extravagance
to beckon hummingbirds.
In forty years of medical practice, I have found only two types of non-pharmaceutical ‘therapy’ to be vitally important for patients with chronic neurological diseases: music and gardens.
Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
When he called for help,
they put him on hold
longer than he could stand
and he broke
the phone in half.
And still there is shelter in shade
and pummeling rain, in the produce aisle
with its mounds of lemons, nectarines.
The garden was literally healing me. The low to mild depression I had been cycling in and out of started to break, and I felt lighter, happier, and more self-accepting.