The Sower

You on the poor earth of our little lot, trying to raise radishes, lettuce, beans and beets, peas, corn and carrots, you will not lose the sweet muse of what a garden means. I watch you from the window and despair of loving the labor with you hope and zeal for you are planting meals and memories there, I feel -- though do not know just how you feel. It is your father's garden sown once more, a field in France or Israel or Wales, a frontier mother's dear-brought winter store. You hoe your rows and cultivate these archetypal tales.