In homage to the other garden--those early lettuces and greens that never fail to grow like they're supposed to (am I the only one who dreams of pizza smothered with arugula?), here's a poem from Jody Gladding's out-of-print chapbook, Artichoke, one of the truly beautiful chaps put out by Chapiteu Press:
Thinnings from young lettuces
So bitter, to make up for their tenderness.
Don’t say green like apples, and the stems
aren’t hollow as quills.
All summer the deer wait for the night
to grow dark, for the morning fog to grow
thick in their leaves.
Tatsoi and mizuna
Spoon and fork.
Nothing is ornamental.
Crushed lightly. What it’s like
lying down with a man.