Tag: gardening

Red Delicious Vedanta

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments 
Once upon a random
time, there was an apple
hanging by its stem from
a tree, an apple tree,
of course. It was one 
with the tree but also had
an awkward but compelling 
sense of individuality.

“I am one of many apples,”
it thought, because apples may
be able to think — who really
knows? “But I am special, 
unique, and different. I can feel
it. There is more for me to do
then just hang from this tree.” 

And one day, sure enough, the
sticky stuff holding the stem to 
the tree let go, and the apple 
fell to the ground. 

How exhilarating! 

Not even a parachute or a
fireman’s net to break the
fall. Just an abrupt and
dramatic entrance into a 
whole new life. 

“Ah,” thought the apple. “Now
life can really begin.” And it was
a true shame apples have no 
palms to rub together, or ours
would have. 

And so the apple waited. Other
apples were gently picked by the
orchard workers.  Some had fallen
to the ground as our apple had and 
were tossed into the bruised basket
headed for the cider mill.  But our
apple had tumbled into the tall grass
near the fence line, unseen by 
people or even deer.  

“Surely,” thought the apple, “something
grand will happen soon, something
special, unique, and different just like
me.” But days passed and nothing
happened. 

Our apple started to rot and soon
ants were crawling over it so
disrespectfully.  The red skin turned
a deep and putrid auburn. The white
insides began to age into
brown. 

“I so wanted to be unique,” said the
apple, “and here I am nothing but 
rotting flesh. Oh, how I wish I had 
stayed one with the tree.” The 
apple looked up and saw the orchard
limbs bare. All of the apples and
pears and persimmons had been
plucked or had fallen. 

“I am not one with the tree, and
perhaps I never was,” our apple
opined.  Disappointment caused 
rot to come even more quickly. 
Fall became winter.  Snow covered
the apple, which was now not much
more than a stem and a few
seeds. 

When spring thawed the ground, the
apple awakened from its hibernation, 
for apples are related to bears and 
hedgehogs and bumblebees and humans —
all other beings who spend long stretches 
asleep.  The apple felt different. 
It felt green and new. The apple
patted itself down like a sleepwalker
checking for awakeness and discovered
that a seed had taken root.  It was
becoming a tree, one that would 
someday give birth to apples. 

And finally the apple knew —
It was never one with the tree;
it was one with the earth. 
As apple, as seed, as tree —
one with the mother of us 
all.

Love’s Labors

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I love the spring visit to the 
garden center. 
Marigolds, knock-out roses, and
ten bags of mulch in the 
bed of the truck.
Plus birdseed, potting soil, a
Japanese pencil holly. 

Labors of love feed, create, cultivate.
Like a friend listening without judgment,
a teacher explaining one more time,
a meal cooked for others,
a song written to remind us again
of love. 

Did I? 

I dig a hole and let the thought
leaf out.
Did I love enough? 

How many times I missed a chance
to forgive or ignore
a slight or let go. 
But in my heart’s drought,
did I sometimes water pain with
compassion? 
Did I seed the world with life?

Do I? 

I set the holly into the hole,
straighten it, fill in
around the sides of the
root ball with soil I
soften to crumbles in my
fingers. 

“I hope you’re happy here,” 
I say. “I hope I’ve picked a 
good spot and dug a 
good hole. I hope you get
everything you need to 
thrive."

Then I rise from my knees, 
slower than in years past, but
so much more certain of 
love and what it can grow.

Mine To Do

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I return to the garden 
after a season
of supporting
those who must

matter most right 
now. Last week, I felt 
like Atlas, not quite 
holding the entire 

world on my back,
but convinced it
would crash down
around me if I

didn’t keep straining
and pushing and 
advocating change.
It has been necessary,

exhausting work, but I
turn back now to the 
business of mowing
and weeding and filling

bird feeders.  By day’s
end, I will be coated
with sweat.  Bits of grass,
twigs, dirt, bugs 

stamped on my skin, 
joiners to the cause.   
And I will stink.
I will stop because 

the sun is fading or 
because I am hungry or
tired, but not because
the job is done.

Tomorrow there will 
be more necessary, 
exhausting work that 
is mine to do.  


© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

The Old Poet

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

The old poet
behind a desk
reading aloud
from Frost.
Behind him,
a bookcase
filled with
others’ poems
and a few of his own.

Above the bookcase,
a specimen drawing
of a bluegill.
On top of the bookcase,
between books stacked
and waiting for
a permanent home,
a large feather,
turkey or hawk,
in a mug for soup
long ago surrendered
to pens and feathers.

An Hermes 3000
to his left,
bought new in the sixties,
a well-traveled machine
that has seen Paris,
London, and an
entire season on the
Costa del Sol,
though mostly
untouched then
while the poet
pursued belleza
and drank.

And a shovel,
its handle
propped in the corner
made by the bookcase
and the wall,
waiting to spread
manure or dig
potatoes or take
a side gig as
walking stick
when the reading
ends and the work
of the land
carries on.

The old poet
looks up from
the worn book in
his worn hands
to push the final
words through his
soft stubbled lips.
He closes the book,
assigns reading,
and bids farewell.
A bent finger
clicks the mouse,
and his students
disappear.

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved