Gardeners for Life

Gardeners for life

You don't tend the new seed,
the cute little Sprout that everyone loves to see
push up out of the ground,
Shiny and fresh and full of promise.

You don't take care of that beautiful Spruce or Pine, full grown, 
that attracts admirers and inspires poets to exclaim
" How magnificent !"

You are the gardeners in the middle

You're in the heavy slog,
the hard work.
Helping that awkward scrawny sapling
grow strong,
find its way to the sky, 
sometimes fighting your efforts every step of the way.
You battle the elements that challenge growth,
predators who nibble away at the tender buds.
You create a nurturing soil,
sometimes tending the field all night,
guarding against disaster.

The daily hurdles big and small, 
the copier jammed again, 
Computers on the blink, 
the clock  ticking as a club meeting draws to a close, 
knowing that stacks of papers are waiting for review.
The student who hasn't eaten.

Working hard in this Garden will not lead to
the sweet taste of ripe fruit
or  rippling  fields of grain. 
The plants you tend move off the farm,
grow and blossom elsewhere. 
Make the world more beautiful.
Feed the nation.
You seldom get to see the rewards of your labour.

Just as that awkward sapling is so close to blossoming,
it is snatched away, 
moved to another garden for others to admire. 
They exclaim" how lovely!" 
"How graceful and strong that Redwood is !"
You are not around to hear their admiration. 
When you turn around,
there's another sapling waiting to be attended to.
The gardener's work is never done.

It's your job for better or worse.
the pain and agony, 
the happy dances  and quiet joy, 
the brick wall.

The realization at years end that progress has been made. 
A dormant mind now awake, 
cluttered work now organized, 
a reluctant reader now devouring books,
the shy wallflower now bellowing to fellow students.
Those are your life-changing victories.
You have pushed the seedling
to grow into a stately Sequoia or mighty Oak. 
Those are victories for life.

As my college son writes a paper in the lonely hours of dawn,
I hear his teachers sitting on his shoulder,
guiding him on his journey even now,
Whispering words of encouragement.
I am grateful for my towering tree,
The Sapling that has become a man,  
tended so well by farmers in this garden.




Donna RaglandGreene