by Katherine Burke, Norway
I didn’t ask you this morning, when I ripped you from the Earth. You, spritely green onions, first to raise your heads in Spring, massed in happy bunches, (no social distancing for you) Your long straight fleshy stalks, topped with bright purple flower heads, greet me every morning as I walk into the garden. Yet it isn’t my garden, it is ours. But there are enough, I reasoned, these have overflowed, they have taken over the nearby garden bed, they are encroaching on others. I pulled you out by the roots, a mighty heave it took, and then you were loose from Earth, your spidery white roots untethered. What is enough? You retort: Who decides enough? Is it enough that you humans have settled and wandered and squatted and plundered and wreaked havoc over the entire Earth? Is it not enough that you have stretched your roads, your airplane contrails, your housing, your commerce, in ever increasing sprawl? Who decides enough? Is it not enough: the commodities you amass, the resources you extract, the constant destruction of ancient place for newfangled finds? When is it enough? I am washing the last of the lifegiving soil from you as your words wash over me in waves. I was not even planning on using your roots. I carefully cut off the white rhizomes, enough stem for regrowth. Now, I remember to ask: where would you like me to plant you? Where would you like to grow? It isn’t my world, it is ours. The heady aroma of spring onion fills the kitchen as I finish. Spring onion soup will nourish me today, but it is Earth that must nourish you and me today and always. I plant your roots in deep loamy soil on the little hill above the garden. Here, you will flourish. Here, your sisters can see you. Here, I will see you when you have regrown your long stalks and purple blooms. I will remember your lesson: it isn’t my world, it is ours. Teach me what is Enough.