Inside: A poem I wrote last year, perfect as we head into the season of spring. . . . “Common Ground.”

Common Ground

 

We meet for a meal at her house in the city,

a long way from my country home.

The distance measured in more than miles.

 

We arrive, her father and me, bearing shortcakes and plants—basil, rosemary, tomatoes, and peppers.

I set to work in her garden plot, giving haircuts to herbs—sage, chives, thyme, and oregano.

They gather at the grill to prepare food.

She checks in on my solitary work, admitting plants aren’t her thing.

 

When I see my daughter, I don’t see myself. Our paths diverged a while back.

Hers led to asphalt streets. My roads remained rural.

Like a seed that hearkens back to earlier generations.

 

It happens like that in nature sometimes.

 

At the dinner table we cultivate conversation, careful not to disturb tender growth.

Hours pass and traffic needs to be avoided, but before we go, plants need planting.

She heads out to the plot with me, digs holes, sinks roots in the ground.

I pour in new soil, which she rakes and pats with her hand.

 

“Putting the babies to bed,” Nana used to tell her.

 

Before we leave, she hugs me tight—

Unrestrained, like the sage that grows wild in her garden.

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