Fare thee well.

Let them call you a weed. You are none such as that. They may not see your beauty, your strength, your ingenuity. I do, little purple flower. I see it. I see you. Bloom your heart out how and where you bloom best. Never you mind that gardener.

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Long days, low light from high above.

The sweet corn has a tassel. The mystery tomatoes are not cherries. The yellow crook neck have tiny squash. The strawberries are in full fierce little force. There green beans are gearing up for a long season. The carrots won’t quit and the okra is gaining height. The melon has vines and the peppers have flowers. It’s been a long and lovely spring. Summer is starting.

And then, we reap.

With these from feet away and peas in the salad picked moments before, our meal is made.

The beans will be ready for a first pick tomorrow or the next day. The peas will have their last harvest the next day or tomorrow. The tides turn with their speed. The earth spins with hers. The garden moves at its own pace. I’m merely here to watch it turn.