Secret Gardens

Secret Gardens
I know the thin strip of spruce;
my friend buried the roots in the backyard,
his father kneeling nearby, watching the tilt;
the base must be straight, he said; the son
pushed the clay around the young trunk,
mixed the topsoil with mud and hands.
Soon an unfinished row became a green fence,
whose thin slits disclosed leftover grass and holes.

The weekend was a thinner curtain closing;
he came already a man, but would leave a child
again; with seeds spinning down like autumn leaves,
it felt like a graveyard on a sunny day,
perfect for a family picnic before moving on,
his house with one more vacant room, filled
with clothes once shed, wrinkled paper, and medals.
The man has shaken the dust of childhood.

I know the dirt is beneath his nails,
constantly digging through photo albums and letters
in his apartment a country away in the city.
I imagine he keeps the lawn low and the flowers open
to the sun, a secret garden I noticed once and again:
a glimpse out the window of my departing train
over an ivied wall, past the row of grown conifers
into the foreign land that, one day, we'll all call home.

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Yesterday I went over to a friends house to help plant some trees. He was home for just a week, back from college and then would be off again, so it impressed me that he was spending his time helping his dad in the backyard. It made me want to write a poem about it. Then another memory coincided this desire. Once on a train in Japan, the train had the ocean on one side and on the other, houses. For brief moments I could see into the backyards of some people and I remember seeing some people working in their backyard like it was a secret garden. Since that moment, I've wanted to write a poem about that as well - catching only glimpses into peoples lives, their secret gardens.

Pause for a moment, close your eyes and think about what this poem might be talking about (if it makes any sense at all).
Now you can keep reading.

I only wrote this poem last night, so it wouldn't surprise me if there were plenty more things I could do to improve it, but basically I wanted to paint a picture of my friend and his home, being caught in the memories, and then continuing to cultivate the memories even after going home. The first stanza sets the image and sets a tone of something lost or leftover, even while another thing is completed. The second stanza gives a bit of the broader picture of what surrounds the initial image. Finally, the third carries the metaphor into the future and how home sticks with us and helps us cultivate our own homes. Something like that at least. For me, at least, it carries that emotion. Hope you enjoy it!