By Julie Leibrich
Janet Secker who shares a love of sonnets, encouraged me to write this book, and asked me to write about my garden.
It prompted me to think about all the gardens I have known and how special secret gardens are.
Wild nasturtiums first, in window boxes,
winking at passers-by on cobblestones.
Clover between the bricks on crofts with foxes.
War-time ruins, born of young men’s bones.
Later, beside the railway track, a lane
lined by mysterious flowers I’ve not seen since.
I held my Nana’s hand to watch the train.
Still taste the steam, still smell the smack of quince.
One year I went without a secret garden.
Just a cactus in a rented room.
Needed to prune. Time for cuts to harden.
Then lilacs, lilies, called me out to bloom.
That year, I tended the garden of my soul.
There, I found the space that makes me whole.