Summer begins at the Posh

Written by Michael Schmandt

The beds are filling, the days are long, and the garden is beginning its annual shift from promise to abundance. Seedlings planted in spring now stand firmly rooted, and harvest baskets are slowly beginning to fill.
 
None of this happens by itself.
 
It happens because many hands have cared for this place. Beds have been prepared, seeds sown, weeds pulled, seedlings planted, compost turned, irrigation maintained, buckets purchased, bees kept, and harvests gathered. Through countless acts of attention and effort, you have helped create something larger than any one person could accomplish alone.
 
Thank you for the work you have given this year. Thank you for your time, your labor, and your care for this patch of ground above the sea. The health and beauty of the Posh Squash are the direct result of your efforts.
 
As we move into the heart of summer and enjoy the season's abundance, it is worth remembering that beneath every harvest lies something even more important. The vegetables nourish us for a season, but the soil sustains the garden year after year. If we care for it well, it will continue to give life long after our own work here is done.
 
With that thought in mind, I offer you the following poem about the ground beneath our feet—the foundation of everything we do here.
 
 
I Am Soil
 
I am soil--
cool, dark, and holding
the rot of last year's leaves.
 
Touch me:
I take the shape of your hand,
hold its heat,
and return it darkened.
 
I am not only sand, silt, clay--
not the bare bones of earth--
but the breathing between them:
a hidden multitude,
small mouths opening in the dark,
threads passing from root to root.
 
I carry what has fallen--
leaf, feather, rind, and bone--
and turn it, patiently,
into another beginning.
Nothing I am is wasted.
Nothing I keep is mine alone.
 
And you--
who walk above me
thinking yourself separate--
eat what I have lifted into leaf,
breathe what I have loosed to air,
are kept alive by what I undo.
Your body remembers me
even when your mind does not.
 
Touch you:
The dust on your skin is not foreign.
The iron in your blood,
the salt of your tears,
the unseen lives that keep you--
all have passed through me,
have risen, briefly,
as you.
 
For what you ask of me
I answer in kind:
neglect, and I thin to silence;
care, and I deepen--
dark, generous,
and full of return.
 
 
Warmly,
Michael, on behalf of the Planting Team