Today I walked my garden path. I spied 
small buds in bright striped coats like Joseph wore. 
They wove and danced awake to see dew drops
melt fast away. I watched two bumble bees
dart-dash, light-speed, among bright floral giants 
in search of nectar feasts before I snitched
three ripe, red cherry tomatoes whose quick taste
refreshed my savoring lips so nearly parched. 
While glimpsing an orange-black monarch flutter-float
by my eyes to land light on lime basil, 
dill, spearmint, rosemary, and fennel sprouts,
I poached a lightning quick garden lunch and spied 
another butterfly flutter, flicker, float 
alone across my path. 

A few short steps along, I heard rhubarb,
young spinach, lettuce, radishes and peas 
entreat, “Please take us, your first table fare.”
I plucked these first spring greens until my eye
embraced my garden’s end, a cornucopia  
full, not yet ripe, with heirloom giants to weight
my basket heavy with leeks, white onions, endive,
tomatoes, kale, red beets,, and summer squash. 
Because I knew I must with patience wait
more weeks to glean my kitchen’s vegetable repast, 
I waved goodbye just as a new soft breeze
invited the plants to sing and dance a summer rhapsody. 

Whenever I recall each summer’s walks
along this garden’s path, I ask myself,
“Did I not plan this patch to feed my soul,
to fuel my heart’s hot burning flame with seeds 
of life that grow unbound until the day
dark Hades rises from his winter’s sleep 
with his kidnapped prize, Persephone? 
Did I not choose to note how each small seed 
began its life to end its fateful time 
upon my hungry family’s dinner table?”
In answer, I vow I’ll walk my path each day
to glean such garden fruits our souls require
for our desired repast.

[James Bellanca began authoring poems 66 years after his first day of work as a secondary English Teacher in Illinois and other stints as a publisher of teacher education books. 60-years as husband, father, grandfather, 82 years as a gardener, and stops on 7 continents. His long and wide experience provides the fodder for damning war and violence, celebrations of the green world (especially in his garden), and laughing at the travails of old age. In style, he favors playing with the formal aspects of traditional poetry.]