If You were a Garden If you were a garden You'd plant yourself with poetry, spread seeds in fine lines, work the earth with your bare hands, feel the pulse of seasons. You’d rock yourself to sleep with the sound of rain, harvest and sow together, so the earth would always be productive, each fruit a seed, each squash filled with promise of new plants. When the drought time came, You'd let my fields fall fallow, and wait. You'd be a riot of color, fragrance, taste! You'd plant lavender and lemon verbena, rainbows of poppies. You'd ply yourself with seasons of sage, basil, oregano, and be aware of thyme. In winter frost, You'd dream of spring's new shoots, and in spring's first daffodils You'd see the deep shades of fall. Always you'd be ready for mystery, and the delight of unexpected miracles. You'd feel the power that drives the plant to fruit. You'd work and you’d wait, and love those fine lines and rounded seeds, those deeply lobed leaves, billowing colors, of our gardens yourself.