Ode to a Garden Fork
Poem and Illustrations by Jocelyn Curry
I first saw you
on a day dim with January light
while the baby napped
and joy was but a memory
pasted and closed within
a shelved album.
Outdoors the earth was frozen,
closed for the winter,
the sign saying
Stay Away.
I obeyed, reached instead
for the Smith & Hawken
catalogue, the warm wishing well
for gardeners banished by the cold.
You were on page 23:
Bulldog Garden Fork,
Drop-forged steel,
Filled-Y ash handle
Handmade in England
Lifetime guarantee.
Your tines
were four-sided spears
tapered and ready to
pierce and lift at my command,
eager to find stones
left carelessly behind
by the glacier
that was once my neighborhood.
The smooth, golden wood
of your eager up-stretched handle
was your invitation to toil
hand in hand with me.
Your gleaming image
became nectar and manna in one -
without you I would be as weak as a brittle stalk,
unable to till a single furrow.
I filled out the order form,
wrote the check and sent it off.
Time passed as slowly
as lichen grows upon a stone.
At last, in late February
you arrived on my porch
a boxed Bulldog,
my winter savior,
my English Adonis!
I slit the tape,
opened the box,
and lifted you in wonder.
Your handle was not wood,
but molded amber.
Your tines were not metal,
but forged light.
I rushed you to the garden,
where the frost had heaved and crusted
the soil of our Eden.
I pressed my foot onto your steel shoulder,
plunging you into the earth for the first time.
We married at that moment,
bound by fertile purpose.
Many winters have passed since then.
The baby is now 24.
Your shaft and handle
are the color of spores,
the wood grain raised and rough.
The edges of your tines have softened,
worn by basalt stones and cedar roots.
Once, on a wet day in April
when the daffodils strained
against the rain,
I thought someone had taken you
from our garden.
I searched for you as I would
for a vanished lover.
But you were there,
leaning against the fir tree,
camouflaged against its craggy bark,
your body resting, but
your purpose unchanged.
Relieved, I grasped you
with my gloved hand
and together we worked the soil.
Poem written in 2005 as an assignment for a college class in poetry.
Artwork done in 2007
All content: copyright Jocelyn Curry 2015. For permission to use content
please contact me via email.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Post script: the baby is now 34. The fork is still in daily use:
Comments