To all Proselytists
By Lisbeth Coiman
Church is not a word I visit regularly.
If you are curiuos -
like so many seem to -
about the nature of my church
I tell you -on a good day, that is
when I care enough to give you an answer-
"My garden is my church
Every day, after I finish working
I go there,
kneel down, and pull out the weed.
I love pulling weed, you see,
That is the number one task of the gardener
"Clean your crap (grass) first"
Then, cut the dead flower heads, to inspire new blooms.
Take the dead heads appart and spread the seeds.
Prune the overgrown bushes.
Propagate bulbs.
Compost and water.
When done with love and care
You don't even need chemicals.
The beauty of my garden is
the joy it brings to
neighbors and passersby
My gratitude.
By recycling my food scraps
and garden waste
into the compost pile
I give back to the land
what has been given to me
in forms of food and beauty
On Sundays,
some neighbors wave good-bye on their way to
service, they call it.
Many, too many, far too many
Ask
"Ain't you going to church?"
On a good day I say
"I'm in church.
I worship with flowers and weed"
If they understand the metaphor and are content with it, that seems to be the end of it.
That's on a good day, I say,
Because I am ready,
Oh,
I
am
so ready
to live without garden or churches,
or proselytist neighbors.
You see:
I don't share your dilusion.
I don't care about your hell or heaven,
because when I died, they'll throw me in the compost pile,
and when the bugs are done with me
I will become the soil from which a new tree will grow.
Now take a hike and leave me
alone.
