I'm Adalimone, and this is The Slowdown.

Even as a child, I loved Tagarden.

I loved the aliveness of the soil between my fingers, the visceral pleasure of the warmth

of dirt, of green shoots poking up out of the ground, and the need of plants, the way

you could fix them with water and a little light.

Now my own garden is mostly a mess, but it also delights me.

I can spend hours out there in the sun making sure all the plants are thriving.

I always say I'm more of a planter than a gardener, because I plant and then let them

be.

The tending part is often harder for me, but my grandfather's and grandmothers were all

good both at gardening and tending.

They put in all those hours of work to grow the perfect tomato that tasted like earth

and sun all at once.

Today's poem honors the lineage of gardens and gardeners.

I love this poem because it celebrates the father in the garden, and in doing so weaves him

in with the goodness of the earth.

Photo Synthesis by Ashley M. Jones.

When I was young, my father taught us how dirt made way for food, how to turn over soil

so it would hold a seed and impet mud, how the dark could nurse it until it broke its

green arms out to touch the sun.

In every backyard we've ever had, he made a little garden plot with room for heirloom

tomatoes, corn, carrots, peppers, jalapeno, bell and poblano, okra, eggplant, lemons,

...