The Gardener

In Honor of Dorothy Pitman Hughes

Years ago, I was honored to meet a friendly, gracious woman at a book festival in Jacksonville. She inspired me to write something in her honor, which (like most of my poetic prose) I’ve kept tucked away. This piece is dedicated to the great intersectional feminist, Dorothy Pitman Hughes, October 2, 1938 – December 1, 2022.

The Gardener

In Honor of Dorothy Pitman Hughes

The gardener is a daughter, 

raising her fists- and 

sisters- full of

power.

She has tied aside her soft, African crown,

and has unclenched her only armament

to show the children

—babies, really—

how to plant

our tiny

seeds.

“The wind will lift them right

out of your hands,” she

says. “They

are so

light.”

Every day the children enter the garden,

stepping slowly into the rain-soaked

soil, their baby shoes

sucked downward,

then freed.

Little fingers, well-taught, feel the

fuzz-prickled stems, and

touch the berries,

not yet

ripe.

Acolytes all, she’ll raise them, too, on

the recipe Our Lady handed her,

a long, long time ago. She

can still remember its

luscious weight

upon her

tongue.

Made just and right, it is

the sweetest there is—

and ever

will

be.

She calls her disciples to join her at

the table. They remember

to be thankful

before they

partake.

She remembers four young apostles:

Addie, and Cynthia,

Carole, and

Denise.

Gone.

She watches her brood, then closes her

eyes, to savor the snack-time

clucking. Music!

The sweetest

there is, and

ever

will

be.

Soon will come a

story, delicately

served. And

then?

She will sing them to sleep,

planting tiny, august

dreams for each

and every

soul.

The gardener, she sits—

watching now—

vigilant and

certain.

She awaits the moment, when

all her naptime gardeners

will finally

awaken.