It’s quiet here on a winter night. The frost makes no noise, short of the sound of icy grass under feet. I have to be honest, I miss the sounds the winds makes during the seasons that hold life above the ground. I long for the rustling of leaves in the sycamores, for the soft moan of things when a stiff breeze finds me here from its birth out on the warm Pacific.
I am the soil outside your door…the earth beneath your feet that keeps you grounded. It has been so long since the first frost descended and turned dew to something that held a promise of a long winter…of time away from your tending hands, your steady tilling. It has been months since blossom faded to wilt and fell…then joined me here and became what I am…and waited for your return.
I am earth, and you are my caregiver, my tender, my partner in life and the giving of life to bulb, root and seed. After the dark months, during which I become hard, dry, barren, you come to me with fork, blade, hoe, and simple hands. You tend me, till me, turn and blend me. You soften my disposition after winter’s abandon left me impenetrable. You give me air, water, and plants to embrace. You give me your attentions, your efforts and heartfelt nurture. And I in return will be the giver of blossom and fragrance, green leaves, stem, branch, and bough.
I await the gardener, the lover of life…of inspiration… and seeker of distraction from life beyond the confines of property lines, flower bed and shade ‘neath the mantle of green.
I cling on occasion to the soles of your feet, to the nurturing hands…for an extended moment of the partnership between you and me. I am the earth, the soil you tend. I am your refuge…your reward for all you do, and in return, you are my reward. It isn’t about harvest or show. It’s about doing what’s right to bring life to the soul, to the heart, to the sight and senses.
You are the gardener that will soon awaken me from slumber, loosen me up and give me life to bring along.
And you are Matthew’s constant gardener too, as you tend to his need for a place to sit and seek the quiet…the balance here in the mist and the midst of a town growing older. The two of you, not yet old, but no longer young…can use the cool of me beneath your feet…the lily of the valley, song of the mourning dove, and late evening’s breeze. We are all partners in the struggle, the turning of seasons year after year…and each other’s reward for returning to what is pure, validating, and grateful…perfect as only the bond between a patch of earth, a garden, a gardener, and a grateful visitor can be…
Matthew Landsman
Matthew Lyle Landsman 