The Enchanted Garden

My grandmother had a green thumb,
she could make rocks blossom,

and petunias sprout from pebbles.
The weeds would rush away from her,

giggling and flinging clods of dirt in haste.
Bugs would never eat her plants,

instead they headed to the neighbor’s yard,
hide if a bird flew overhead,

or rattle rakes in the toolshed,
an inexplicable glint in their eyes.

My grandmother had a green thumb,
the very dirt, if asked, turned into velvet.