Transplanting the Leeks
Small shovel in one hand,
crackling black container
in the other, I walk down
to the garden
to plant leeks.
Slender green stems
need to be separated
roots spread out
in stronger soil, whipped
by harsher winds.
Cradling them gently, I feel the softness
of the pointed spears
between my fingers, still vulnerable
bending easily.
Tousled white roots teased out
I slip them,
one by one
into their earthy trough,
sprinkle between them
-blessing? parting gift?-
the last soft dirt
fallen from their roots.
Membranes will grow
around white cores
hugging tightly
the tender heart.
Returning, I find my son
and husband at the kitchen table
discussing seed rates and fertilizer
machinery
insurance
the price of land:
How much is needed
to make a profit, raise
a family?
It’s time for my son
to spread roots
in new soil, be tested
by stronger winds.
Skin after skin will grow.
How many does it need
to shield the tender core?
~ Susanne von Rennenkampff
Susanne writes: “I immigrated from Germany in 1981 and have lived on a grain farm in central Alberta since. Fascinated by the interaction between humans and nature my poetry and memoir pieces often deal with this topic.”
I recall your reading this lovely poem at a Women Word Weavers meeting. It is well worth another read, another ponder. Thanks.