-This poem reflects on an empty garden basket as a quiet symbol of harvest completed, where usefulness, gratitude, and memory remain after the day’s gathering is done.
It rests beside the garden gate,
its woven sides still faintly warm,
a few green leaves caught in the reed,
one sprig of thyme, one curling vine.
This morning it was filled with weight,
tomatoes, beans, and fragrant herbs,
the quiet riches of the rows,
gathered gently into hand.
Now only traces linger there,
the scent of basil, dust, and earth,
the honest marks of useful hours,
the shape of labor after joy.
So much of late summer lives here,
not only in what we bring home,
but in the basket left behind,
still holding the memory of abundance.