Gardening contains all the Stages of Grief

The initial elation of DENIAL is in the planting, 

scientifically believing that something will sprout

from a seed.   It's experimental magic.

It isn't even time to pray yet.

Outside, I plant straight rows of peas and gently scatter carrots.

Inside, he sets seeds he's saved into tiny black pots 

he has also saved.  They take up space in the dining room, 

while we watch them grow into tomatoes and peppers.

ANGER is reserved for the animals

even though it's not their fault.

Did we build the fence high enough to keep out the damn deer?  

Don't forget to close the gate!  

How many little black flea beetles did he crush

between his fingers today?  It's the tiniest of battles

in a world wide war, but still,

it's ours to fight.  And it's better than fighting each other.

In July, the BARGAINING begins.

What is the one thing you'd sell your soul for?

Hail netting that holds?  A mild mid-summer? 

At least the devil listens.

There's an abundance ready to cut and clean and cook and eat

and I realize I'd sell my soul

for time to go backwards (just for a little while)

and for one single red beet to pull out of the ground.

When you're down to seeds and stems —

that's DEPRESSION.

When the zinnias turn brown and hang their dead heads 

and the tomatoes go to mush on the vine

and we wonder if it's worth it to water.

He says this is the last salad 

I say these are the final flowers

It's October. The hummingbirds have left.

ACCEPTANCE is noticing the purple hues

of what might be the last morning glory, 

not caring if it is the last morning glory.

There are seeds to save.  Maybe

we'll try for some more lettuce,

or clone some tomatoes and peppers.

I'll put dead flowers in the vase he gave me.

He won't forget to put roses on my grave.