She’s Coming Along

This morning I hear them whisper,
She’s coming along.
The garden
my patient teacher,
and I a slow pupil.
The garden my family,
the Green Beings’ hopes for me
more intricate and lengthy
than I can understand.
The Garden is raising me.

I sense the deep well-wishing
of the old Ciruela tree.
I feel the Elephant Ears,
every giant leaf,
listen to me pray.
The garden walls are alive
with vines that sigh,
She’s coming along
When the Duranta bush cascades,
the purple flowers murmur it.

I could wish for more but I won’t.
I must be content with coming along.
I hear the Areca Palm,
her arched branches
brushing in green goodwill
against the blade of the Mexican Palm.
The Lemon Grass is tasking me
to cut it now, to dry for tea.
I do and the soft swords swish,
Coming along, coming along.

The Nopal cactus
and the orchid called Espiritu Santo
sunbathe side by side, nearly silent,
except for a prickly undertone:
She’s coming along.
The Marigolds ask for their Nahuatl name,
Cempazuchitl, cempazuchitl.
I sing it, and they give me
little nods of approval.
The garden is raising me well.
©Susa Silvermarie 2025