Old gardens are smelled before they’re seen.
thin drafts of lilac
between long grasses.
Old gardens draw memories from the ground.
Rippling the earth, potato drills
bedded under a strata of sorrel.
Old gardens sigh of long trips to the cellar.
Caved in and cupboards bare,
ignored of archeological importance.
Old gardens are felt before they’re seen.
A web of roots, a knot of turf,
Worms grow succulent, free of prodding steel.
Old gardens do not wait, but
thrive on old compost, new rain,
breed botanical anarchy.