Really, I just wanted flowers, but as I
cruised the nursery—my antenna picking
up not-so-subtle messages from my
long-gone, veggie-growing husband—
I felt compelled to adopt one small tomato
plant and a leafy, wanna-be cucumber,
neither showing signs of food to come.

“What do I need to grow these well?”
I asked an aproned woman watering
a vast table of future veggies, she with
enough dirt under her nails to qualify
as an expert in my book.

She squinted at me. “Cage for tomato,”
she said, aiming the hose in their
direction. “Marigold for cucumber.”

“Marigolds?” For color contrast?
Bright orange to set off the greens?

“For bug,” she said, setting down
the hose and beckoning me to
the long table where flat after flat
of the ’golds little heads popped up,
goldening.

Bad bugs? I wondered. Good bugs?
Turns out it’s both, I later learned,
their scent deterring pests and
sending come-hither messages to
pollinators.

Weeks ago I plunked cukes and ’golds
near each other in the bed next
to the garage with, I hoped, enough
compost and kind words to encourage
the youngsters.

Ever since, the cuke leaves have grown
and grown, sporting cute little yellow
flowers that the bees seem to like,
but nothing resembling a vegetable.
Day after day, hose in hand, I tuned
into the buzzing transmissions:

Keep watering, Toots. You never know.

Today I peeked under the swath of green
umbrellas prettily arrayed on the ground,
where, I swear, practically overnight,
a trio of cukes has magically appeared,
fattening like well-fed calves,

the companion ’golds apparently having
done their job well, the silent bodyguards
beaming their bright selves like lighthouses
over the soil, encouraging the ones
in their care that all they need to do
is what they were born to do:

Grow, grow, grow.