Identity
there was a time
when old gardeners
often women
one step away from treatment
for plant addiction
would label
with small wooden signs
with carefully written
cursive letters
in indelible ink
the roses
perennials
annuals
fruit and nut trees
evergreen and
deciduous shrubs
the flowering this and that
in their derivative
english gardens
along the winding
walking paths
the truly deranged
would sometimes order
from some faraway place
a copper letter press
which would arrive
many weeks later in the post
allowing them to identify
what was growing
by squeezing onto
tiny sheets of metal
the letters spelling
the pedigree of plants
and with the rain and sun
the markers would blend
gently over time into the garden
with a patina of verdigris
committed fellow gardeners
during the business days
of the week would arrive
as if on a secret schedule
to discuss and admire
to suggest and critique
the intricacies and patterns
the setbacks and progress
occasionally departing
in a fit of pique or jealousy
and on weekends
children and grandchildren
and neighbors with
green manicured lawns
would stop over
roll their eyes
and take the tour
in the proud care
of the proprietor
but increasingly
not so much
anymore
now there's
an app
for that
with a snap
of your phone
you know
in an instant
what something is
(except in those
remaining
isolated spots
on the planet
without a
cell connection)
gone are the
slow apocryphal discussions
about why a certain flower
is important to the culture
why that one there is more beautiful
in the place where it is planted
more likely to grow
healthy and happy
for years over in
that chosen location
phrases that were
once frequently uttered
to approving nods describing
medicinal properties
companion and
complementary planting
three seasons of bloom
are largely if not totally forgotten
yes something is lost
with digital convenience
when machine intelligence
of some artificial nature or another
colloquially exposits
on the meaning of an object
but a small
and consequential
advantage is derived
labels are lost
through the running of dogs
the hording of squirrels
the learning and collecting
habits of curious children
the mischief of spirits
who dwell in old
well-tended places
and with all
the planting and
rearranging of the garden
and the passing years
and with human aging
and the graying
of vision and of thought
there is now little forgetting
(except for where
you last left your phone)
what something is called
that you care a lot about