Six seeds from France began it all.
            No abracadabra required, no alacazam—
            just a bit of manure, some hoeing,
            a little rain, and patience.
 
Where never they were seen before
            my giant pumpkins grow.
            Thick, prickly vines, green glossy leaves—and look!
            Over 100 pounds this one is, a marvel, a golden throne!
 
Seated upon it, content is what I am
            in the lovely light of clear bright days,
            meadowlarks for company,
            clouds floating by—angels in billowing skirts.
 
Farmers at Middlesex Fair gaze in awe
            as a juggler draws ribbons from his throat,
            though it’s all deception. What amazes me
            is how the earth blazes with sunflowers and sun fruits.
           
Townswomen shut themselves in cushioned rooms
            thick with malarial air.
            They hold hands in the dark
            hoping to hear from the dead.          
           
As for me, I look out at the pond
            listen to the gossip of bees, tend my garden.
            I have great faith in a seed—
            it prepares me to expect wonders.


© by Ginny Lowe Connors.
Used here with the author’s permission.

Note: Some phrases in this poem come from Thoreau’s manuscript, Wild Fruits.