Her faith, a wild Mustard Seed
growing, swelling, and bursting forth
in the twilight of her golden days.
Her wisdom cultivated on dirt-stained knees.
St. Francis, on a garden pedestal,
smiles with favor at sparrows bathing in the oval basin.
"Tempus Fugit" imprints her sundial.
Time began in a holy garden.
She remembers the beginnings when wildflowers
established a partnership with the earth.
Rambling tendrils of pea-like Vetch made excellent fodder.
Common Chickweed grew in open sanctuaries,
one for larvae molts, another
bringing forth seeds for songbirds.
She remembers their strong, woody rootstock
flourishing uninvited, suckering cultivated plants.
Wildflowers overwhelmed her kitchen garden.
Troublesome weeds, she thought,
belong on the border of thickets
or growing by the roadside in waste places.
But she remembers Algonquians
teaching forefathers survival secrets,
roasting Arrowhead tubers and
brewing Beebalm for medicinal tea.
Every garden hybrid started as a weedy flower somewhere.
Daisy-like Mayweeds from Europe
made a delicate cup of Chamomile tea for dipping crumpets.
Remembering the Creator, her mentor,
she humbly walked through moorlands
observing Bull and Pasture Thistles,
lobes of Indian Paintbrush stained brilliant scarlet,
and gazed sublimely at the profusion of color-play
on cool mountaintops.
Gentle memories consecrated in her heart,
she returned to her robust soil
platting patches of flowering meadows
where Cardinal Flowers stood as hilltop patriarchs
overseeing her homestead hewed with a settler's ax;
and Bluets of Innocent Quaker Ladies
pioneered a Primrose path adorning sacred ground.