I’ve been working on a poem for weeks. Well, ‘working’ might not be the right word. 

I’ve been toying with it. I turn phrases over in my mind. I jot things down in the Notes App, at random moments of the day, when I’m not doomscrolling or dopamine seeking. I pick words up and put them down. I place them into little piles. Sort them into lines of varying lengths. I stack some into sentences.

Way back in 2020, during lockdown, a pile of rocks appeared in a nearby neighbor’s yard. I noticed them as we were driving to the lake house one weekend. They seemed to be purposely placed around the curbside mailbox.

Each weekend when we passed, the pile would be higher. Eventually cement was added to hold them together. A stone sculpture. 

Soon after, a blanket of stones began to spread out on the ground all around the yard. One Friday we noticed that a ditch had been dug. By Sunday a flowing river of rocks had been formed. 

Week after week, small plants appeared here and there. I recognized a tiny butterfly bush, and thistle. I never saw anyone working on it, but it was constantly changing.

One day, we were heading out and we noticed a large stone had been set on a tree stump pedestal. John said it looked like a rabbit, the March Hare. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. Every time we pass by, one of us will say ‘Rabbit!’ and the other will reply ‘Rabbit’, much like whenever we pass by cows on a farm. It has become a tradition – our rabbit habit.

Recently, I was riding by on my bike and I saw people outside in the yard for the first time. One was moving rocks. The other was wiping sweat off of their brow.  As they looked up from their work, I said, with perhaps too much excitement, ‘Good morning! I just love your whimsical rock garden. Every time I ride by it makes me smile!’

And they said, with way too much humility, ‘Thanks, it’s a work in progress.’

As I continued coasting by, the response came to me- So am I! but I didn’t say it, because I was already out of earshot, and I didn’t want to stop and disturb their creative process. I pedaled on, smiling, and thinking about this work-in-progress-life of mine.

Now that summer is here the plants in the rock garden are big and blooming. On my passes I have seen pollinators, chipmunks, deer, and a garter snake enjoying the garden. I have watched rain water collect and seep down between the stones. I have driven by and waved to the artists a few times.

The garden is different every time I pass. Still forming slowly, carefully. Day by day, stone by stone. It brings me joy each time.

And the poem, in my mind, about a rock gardener is forming slowly. I continue putting words into piles. Stacking up sentences. Collecting metaphors. It’s a work in progress. 

Aren’t we all? 

And isn’t everything?