My garden is a time capsule,
it’s contents a catalog
of my successes and my mistakes.

In the corners and along the edges,
irises, cannas, and lilies bloom
when it’s their time.
My small white rose bush,
a gift from a secret pal,
blossoms all summer long.

It’s a history of my education–
of hyssop that pleases the bees,
the weeds I leave in spring
because the butterflies like them,
the goji berry plant, confined to a pot,
the blackberry bed,
the run amok strawberries,
and the things I shouldn’t have planted,
wouldn’t have planted, if only I’d known
what great bullies they were,
pushing out all the other plants,
staking their claim
with some type of herbal manifest destiny.

Each year I work to keep lemon balm
and tuberous-rooted sunflowers in check,
to make sure the annual flowers
and vegetables have room to grow.

Each year, I’m surprised again
when the time capsule opens up
and reminds me again
how much I have to learn,
and how nature always wins.