Before you, I never grew anything.
Never looked at the unbroken ground
and imagined what might sprout there,
that I could coax my own sustenance
from the earth.
I never dislodged the pebbles of dry clay,
and the miracle of food appeared on my table
from the downtown Safeway. The flowers,
orchids, all made of silk.
Before you, there was no garden.
No cherry tomatoes, no peonies or roses,
no sweet-smelling melons swelling
on the ground. You had your tricks
for getting the most from the soil,
the way a saint pulls the best
from a soul.
Before you, my dear, no one bothered.
No one had the patience. No one
stood staring at the thin rocky soil
of me, never walked up and down
my barren rows, rubbing dirt
between his fingers, asking himself:
What shall I plant here?
What precisely will grow?
AE Hines is the author of Adam in the Garden, Charlotte Lit Press, 2024.
Image: Detail from Madonna of the Pomegranate, by Sandro Botticelli, c. 1487.
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