I. 

“How much time do you spend gardening?” 
I say— 
My back fence neighbor’s eyes are placid, patient
Riddled with cataracts, half blind 
They count the neat rows again 
His backyard is an Eden but with clothing 
An open-air produce department: 
Tomatoes, peppers, squash, carrots, and sugar peas;
An apricot and two peach trees; 
And the grapevine climbing our common fence 
Which is a chain link line too porous 
To hold back my personal collection 
Crabgrass, clover, and a million gaudy dandelions
Stinging nettle 
Nightshade 
Morning glory 
Pigweed, gumweed, stinkgrass. 
Natives I suppose—plants 
That need no chemical encouragement 
No irrigation 
No pruning or stakes 
Weed is a word for a strategy without flowers or fruit
Without human approval 
They just want to grow here and can 
My neighbor kills them root and branch 
Gathers their f laccid carcasses with a rake 
The handle is toil-oiled and smooth and 
It’s missing a few rust-eaten teeth 
It stops 
He unfolds a leather-bound hand 
Extracts a white handkerchief from 
The bib-pocket of his dark blue overalls 
He blows his nose. 
“About half,” he finally answers my question. 

II. 

About half. 
I picture the implacable circular sweep 
Of clock hands everywhere 
And calendars packed with pipe wrenches and pin-ups
And Stonehenge 
La Piedra del Sol 
Sundials and waterclocks 
A baboon fibula scored exactly twenty-nine times
And a dagger of sunlight marking the summer solstice
Passing through a neat line of windows 
Formed in ancient stacked-stone walls 
Piercing the inner chamber 
About half. 
I contemplate the influence or entity 
—I’m not quite sure what or how— 
That synchronizes the time-pieces embedded in our phones
Propelling us forward 
Urging us on to the next thing 
Pouring on the guilt 
For not being there earlier 
For not staying longer 
For not getting more done 
Because my children’s childhood is fleeting 
And rosebuds won’t gather themselves 
And the human brain shrinks as it ages 
Because I buy books I will never read and record shows
I will never watch 
And my elderly neighbor 
Has invented a new time-reckoning system 
He spends half of his time eating and sleeping 
Watching daytime TV; applying sunscreen and 
Walking his jet black cocker spaniel 
Visiting and being visited 
Ingesting a rainbow array of pills from a seven-chambered
Plastic dispenser bearing the names of the days of the week
And how much time does he spend gardening? 
About half. 

III. 

Another harvest and fall 
We never saw him after the hard frost 
Year after year 
He reemerged in the early spring 
Tulips and daffodils and him in heavy overalls 
A full-body coat, red flannel 
Until this year 
He fell ill in October; by January he was gone 
I knew something was wrong months before we found out
Deer—blundering car-dodgers down from the mountains—
Winter hungry, the original occupants of our block,
Had eaten his arbor vitae 
From the ground to as high as they could reach 
Nobody wrapped them in his absence 
And the snow melted to reveal two great piles of leaves
No sign of his trusty rake 
His family didn’t invite us to the funeral 
They didn’t know about us 
They didn’t know he had fed us bushels of 
Tomatoes, peppers, squash, carrots, and sugar peas
Apricots and peaches and grapes 
From the vine climbing our common fence 
Eden is weed fallen 
And the realtors and house-hunters never 
Stay long in the backyard 
They take pictures with their phones 
Their lips move, but I can’t make out the words 
It’s always something about work 
I see them through my departed neighbor’s eyes
I wave and give them a look that means 
This garden place is not for you 
I can tell they are busy; 
Stretched thin; stress harried; time enslaved 
Distracted by goals and obligations and things 
Too much like us.