This is one of my very
favourite poems. Anyone who is passionate about gardening may well appreciate
it too. It brings to mind what the great mystic Julian of Norwich wrote –
‘I watched,
wondering what kind of
work it might be
that the servant would
do.
Then I understood the
he (the Christ) would do the greatest work and hardest toil that is.
He would be a
gardener,
digging and ditching,
straining and
sweating,and turning over the earth,
and seeking the
depths,
and waterimg the
plants on time.
And in this he would
continue his labour
and make sweet streams
to run,
and noble and
plenteous fruits to spring, which he would bring before the lord
and serve him
therewith to his delight.’
Christ as a gardener
The boxwoods planted in the
park spelled LIVE.
I never noticed it until they
died.
Before, the entwined green
had smudged the word
unreadable. And when they
take their own advice
again – come spring, come
Easter – no one will know
a word is buried in the
leaves. I love the way
that Mary thought her resurrected
Lord
a gardener. It wasn’t just
the broad-brimmed hat
and muddy robe that fooled
her: he was that changed.
He looks across the unturned
field, the riot
of unscathed grass, the
smattering of wildflowers.
Before he can stop himself,
he’s on his knees.
He roots up stubborn weeds,
pinches the suckers,
deciding order here – what
lives, what dies,
and how. But it goes deeper
even than that.
His hands burn and his bare
feet smolder. He longs
to lie down inside the long,
dew-moist furrows
and press his pierced side
and his broken forehead
into the dirt. But he’s
already done it –
passed through one death and
out the other side.
He laughs. He kicks his
bright spade in the earth
and turns it over. Spring
flashes by, then harvest.
Beneath his feet, seeds dance
into the air.
They rise, and he, not
noticing, ascends
on midair steppingstones of
dandelion,
of milkweed, thistle,
cattail, and goldenrod.
By Andrew Hudgins
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