My mother tended earth for years,
Her hands in soil, her hopes sincere—
Yet wisdom’s seed had yet to sprout,
Until the BIU program called her out.
We learned of blight and beetle’s bite,
Of water’s kiss and slug’s soft flight,
Of dogs that roam and mold that clings,
Of spacing rows and careful things.
We pulled the weeds, we sowed the seed,
We dug the beds where roots would feed,
We harvested with humble pride,
And cooked—though I’d rather bide.
But tasting vegetables, a sweet reward,
Made every chore feel less ignored.
New shoots unfurl, a bright display,
Each leaf, a promise of the day.
We watered under blazing sun,
Planted where the light runs run,
Learned how to prune, to coax, to tend—
Gardening, a craft that never ends.
For seasons turn, the garden stays,
A living art that softly sways.
From summer’s blaze to winter’s hush,
The soil remembers every brush.
“The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.” — Genesis 2:15 (ESV)
So here’s to soil, to seed, to rain,
To lessons learned, to joy and pain—
The garden’s heart beats year‑round,
A timeless dance upon the ground.
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