I remember my grandparents' garden,
a small patch behind the garden shed
that held the sturdy old lawnmower.
Wild raspberries grew there,
black and sweet in the summer sun.
There were walking onions and radishes,
banana peppers and cucumbers for canning.
I remember my parents' garden,
vast and thriving with life.
Zinnias grew there in long rows
swarming with bees and butterflies,
inviting us to stop and smell.
Peas clung to their netting,
bush beans stood knee-high,
lettuce and radishes in wide stripes.
Onions of all colors were there,
carrots, even beets some years.
Cauliflower and broccoli and cabbage
lifted their heads above the earth.
Tomatoes spilled out of their cages
and corn waved pom-poms
to cheer them onward.
Okra formed a bristling phalanx
followed by hills of cucumbers,
yellow squash, and zucchini.
My gardens are different --
patches of herbs and raspberries,
tree foods, pots of edible flowers --
but they are just as sweet.