Gardening in July

"Sixty, sixty, sixty,"
I intone to myself.
I am crawling in the dirt
between the rows.
I smell tomatoes and basil,
maybe green beans; now dill.

It is a day without
obligations
if you don't count vacuuming
or cooking.
Those are just things I should do,
not commitments.

As we came back from walking the dog,
Ray went in the house
to get ready to leave for work.
I wandered into the garden.
No gloves, no hat, no kneeling pad,
no tools.

I admired the growing plants,
And then I couldn't stop myself.
I bent over to pull up a weed.
Then another...grasses and mimosa,
things I recognize from years spent
pulling them out.

In just a minute,
my back starts hurting
(sixty, sixty, sixty).
I change to squatting
to keep pulling weeds.

Before long I have given up--
I'm sitting in the dirt,
soft and damp
from last week's rain;
it is perfect for pulling weeds
and admiring vegetables.

It is hot, but early enough in the day,
and the tomatoes are tall enough
to shade me from the slanting sun.
The birds call,
I wish I knew their names.
The cicadas are buzzing.
It will be a hot day.

Eventually I find
I am lying on the dirt
full-length, still pulling things up.

The bees are starting to be busy (bzzy)...
I don't want to be in the way,
keep them from their job
pollinating cucumbers, tomatoes, beans...

I move on to the melons and pumpkins,
just coming up.
Several to a hill,
I reluctantly pull one or two
of the less healthy looking baby plants.
It is better for the rest,
but still hurts my heart.

There are so many weeds,
young and easy to pull.
The mint is spreading everywhere,
in the beds and the paths,
but I don't pull it up.
The bees are happy that it is blossoming.

I find some onions
that were ready to dig up
weeks ago.
Their tops are missing
and they sit waiting for me,
with their pointy brown heads.
They are smaller
than the ones I can buy,
but they're mine
for the taking.

***

Yesterday I went walking with a 15-year-old,
two miles around the lake.
She did not complain,
she was not tired.
She did not wake up sore
this morning.

I was 15 once.
I didn't know to appreciate
my strength and health
and resilience.

But then, my father is 88.
He is strong and healthy,
still prone to gardening,
as he likes to say.

Perhaps 60 is okay.
Perhaps I will like 60.

***

A woman died this week,
A woman I don't think I ever met.
She was not old,
in her 60s (that's not old now).
No one knows what killed her.
It was a drug-resistant infection.
She got sick and went to the hospital
and died a few weeks later.
They couldn't save her there.

I think I will stay home,
and maybe not invite anyone to visit.