Risa Stephanie Bear's Blog

In a garden's grave, life remains: beets
Never pulled may be pulled now, to boil

And put back, for the flock to discover;

Greens have carried on and are taken
And dehydrated, or left for the goose to strip;
Red highlights show missed tomatoes;
Dense thickets of dead vines give beans.
Even the weeds, that had defeated her,
Now yield rich heads of seed for hens.
She walks about, coat-wrapped, scanning

Ground for spuds rolled out by hen feet.
Rarely, rewardingly, a ripe winter's squash
Awaits discovery. Gone to seed last year,
Viable chard and kale erupt now
Even as it were March, and are welcomed.

Little remains of her apple crop,
If the early varieties are to be believed,
Filling the cellar as they have, and
Even the kitchen cabinet, with sealed jars.

Rummaging round the orchard, she spies,
Excusing themselves for tardiness, a
Mighty wall of Granny Smiths. She might
Avail herself of them, but her arms ache.
In winter one wants rest. She turns
Now houseward. Her hands hope
Some things will wait for spring.

The last three summers, as she recalls them, Her heavy-clay bit of earth opened hexagonally;Into the depths she stared, seeing dry darknessSo desiccated, she fancied worms and millipedes
In despair had decamped, seeking other worlds.She poked at crevasses with her stick, finding bottom
Well deeper than twelve inches. Not knowingHow to garden in any but a rain forest, sheAttacked books and websites for some schemeThe budget could be stretched for: shade cloths,
Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds.All were possible, but her hands, old, workedIn fits and starts; her money allocated elsewhere.Now she startles, looking at her night sky, so steeped
In stars all summer, finding it black and close.Some drops, like bad boys' spitballs, carom off her 
Face. More, and now she's happily drenched in herOld nightgown, dancing slow circles. Autumn provesReal at last. This dance is what rain is for.

One should not have an orchard andNot care for it; so she tries,Even lurches from the depths of a chair
She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; fromHer house, warm or cool as she might wish,Out into too much sun or too much rain; fromUnder the kind roof of a porch she'd built,Leaving tool after tool there to gatherDust and webs, marks of a new will to
Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, anOrchard of sorts awaits her care, eachTask having skipped two years at least. 
Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visitsApple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clippingVines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers;Even designates branches for her stove.
As the forenoon warms, she strips offNow her hat, next jacket, shirt and gloves,
Old skin offered to thorns, thistles, Rough bark. Really she'd meant to hire it done, Children of neighbors being short on cash.Habit, she could call it. Habit, and the wayApples come best that see right sun,Ripe enough to pay her for some pains.Do a thing yourself to see it through.

She drags her rusty kneeler as way opensamid plants knee high, wetting her bluetrousers in dew, as clouds decide 
to open or not, as the morning starrecedes and hides itself, with a sliverof new moon, in day. Poppies
have not yet awakened, nor daisies.She kneels and kneels again, eyeingpotato vines, chard, kale, spinach, beets
to see are they hiding pretenders beneaththeir skirts: thistle, geranium, nipplewort,even nascent blackberries, ash trees, an oak.
Most of all, she seeks out bindweed, a longvine snaking from place to place, climbing, smothering fruitful things. She knows
she's prejudiced, but her rationale is: bindweed's not for eating; raspberries are. Herhands elect who dies, who lives today.

She went to fight bindweedamong cabbages, peas,borage, arugula,
potatoes, raspberriesand such. Distracted bythistles, as they are more
easily removed, sheworked an hour, then easedponderously into  
her cracked resin chair, outof breath, watching two gold-finches having it out
on a mossy fence post.What is not said in sixsyllables is silence.

These are not the tomatoes she wanted,Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, orEven Brandywines. But the clerk onlySells what's brought in, finds labels, wandsEach three-inch pot through as she would
A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.Really, the old woman muses, I should haveEnded my day at the seedsman, but it's not
Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I'veOpted for the discount store again, to buyThese things that hurt my soul: hybrids.
There's this about them, they do produceHeavy fruits that please her folks and friendsEasily enough, and in larger numbers. But
To her there's something in them lacking.Old varieties taste of the eyes of youngMen, of weeping, of laughter, ofA child's anger at being teased, ofThe confusion of having one's braid pulled.On the hybrids she can't say as much.End to youth, beginning of sameness; aSafety that came to her too soon.

The cool-weather plants have bolted, and sheHas had to gather the saddest cases.Even kale, not last year's but this year's, and 
Chard are defying the routine she has,Over decades, established as garden law.Often she walks through now, knife in hand,Lopping flowering stalks, vainly trying
Whether some leaves can be kept softEven as the heat chases her dream of spring Away again. Like last year. Like the year before.There's something to be said for radishes,Her bowl tells her, which is that it is notEmpty. With arugula and rocket, leavesRipped from already woody stems, snipped,
Piled loosely, steamed lightly, stirredLazily with duck egg on hot ironAnd tipped out onto a wrap, she'llNot starve today. Not that she would;Times were, she, younger, put things by.Shelves filled, bins groaned. A fear of
Hunger to come, of poverty, keeps herAway from the cellar nowadays. SheValues what's to be had from sun to sun.Even in real winters, there had always
Been something to scrape for under snow.Over her now emptied bowl she, sated,Lingers, watching shadows move. It's That sun that worries her, dryingEven early crops. Could even herDeath come as rain, that would bless.

At her western window, she's stitching.The needle pricks her sometimes. She moves
Her hand aside to not bleed on silk.Even as she works, her waxed thread inRows appearing like commas, she sees a
Western meadowlark pounce in tall grassEver growing, unmowed, outside. WhenShe stops, peering over thick lensesTo note the meadowlark has a grub, to herEars come, faintly, short songs of its mate.Reaching for her scissors, she snips a tail,Nudges it out of sight behind a stitch.
When this row is done, she'll ask her mateIf it will do. If not, she'll turn her mother'sNeedle and pull thread, loop by loop Down to the place her mind wandered.O meadowlark, I must look away!Wonder does not always aid one's work.

Five plants in, her back gives out, anIll omen, given her age. ThisVery thing, her father had predicted;Even said: you will lose interest in
Planting, in harvesting, in putting up.Lately she sees what he meant: politicsAnd global change have consumed her;Now she sits much more, immobilized byThings she can only warn of, not repair.She feels some obligation to the young
In all countries, even of peoples she willNever meet. Some tell her it's not
Her business if some foreign child drowns.Even were that so, she would still feel it,Rummage in her purse, send something.
Back in her garden, unfinished flatsAnd pots of spring greens wonder where she is.Could she have died at last, that old thing,Killed by her curiosity, and left their roots
Groping for water, circling roundIn dark commercial soil? The Very weeds miss her companionable warfare.Even the birds and squirrels, not chasedShe has let down; they lose their edge.
Out in the mailbox, seed catalogs pile up.Under the house, leaks spring.This is how it is. Life moves on.

How she knows she is not useless yet:Old cornstalks must be shattered rightWhere they stood green, to feed worms
She knows are waiting in darkness.Her hens wait too, for water, for feed,Especially for deadnettles, nipplewort,
Kale and comfrey. Some hummingbirdsNow arriving check the lilac for theirOwn nectar bottle that hung thereWhile last spring, summer and fallSlipped past. There are wasp queens
She finds sleeping in her woodpile;Her heart skips a beat as she seesEach one, for she fears them, yet
Interests herself in their rest andSafety, for the good they do her garden.
Now she mucks out her barn, forOf her things she values rich mulch, almostTo distraction, most. But slowly;
Under beams and eaves hang cobwebs,Sacs of eggs suspended in each, waitingEnd of winter, not to be disturbed.Lest she forget to serve all equitably,Every bucket of soiled barn waterShe carries to her trees to tip out: Something to stave off drought.
Yes, she's earned the right, she thinks,Even in this so solitary place,To call herself an asset to her friends.