I came across this poem written by a girl named Nara McCray and I thought I would share it with you. It was written by a 19 year old (at the time) in Alaska.
My Mother’s Garden
Fresh. A mesh of green flesh.
A thriving, spiritually reviving serene nursery.
The products of my mother’s love; multifaceted
manifestation of maternal motherly motivation.
Arduous work, prime relaxation, filthy hands,
spotless kitchen. Many meals of malnutrition,
but summers become increasingly raw: Organic.
Crunch, with a hint of gritty sand.
Picked by my mother’s happy hand.
As I began… to mature her lessons of independence
and nature commence to stir.
“Fresh greens in the stir fry!”
I beg for French fries.
I concur, why?
I have realized I decide
my legs can be flimsy over processed potato guck
standing in an unstable ever moving truck labeled
sturdy stalks of celery, standing in a secure
cozy hut of … FOOD INDEPENDENCE … I decide.
Food picked from my backyard, or petroleum coated
mass monoculture that required miles to drive?
Fast food is an oxymoron, food takes time, seeds
sewn take months to matriculate their own
unique crisp flavor not comparable to any
Vanilla Wafer. Then patiently awaits the time
it takes to cook. Simmering, seasoning, sprinkled
spices. Set to sequester savory flavor. Mixing,
mashing, creating an eclectic montage. Although
this mystic masterpiece made by mother nature
didn’t materialize in moments. It’s worth the wait…
Steaming, sizzling, subsistence-like pride.
This meal exists thanks to my mom.
Her fresh mesh of green flesh.
What are your thoughts after reading this poem?