Clay pots. I like the way they clatter when I get them out of their winter resting place in the back of our shed--and, of course, I always hope the clatter doesn't mean I've cracked them by knocking them together. But they have a pleasing, hollow sound that is music to my gardener's ears. As a bonus, no matter what I put in them creates a pleasing whole. (Oh yes--and the plants, once they fill out, will cover up any chips caused by clatter. It all works together.)

The answer to economic downturn gardening? Clay pots. They're not just for using inside of fancy glazed pots anymore.

Clay
Silent soil
you don't give a root
much encouragement
and stunt
even
the strongest
tree--
you are scooped up
and called
to test yourself
against the fire.
It stops you
in time,
leaving you
hollow
empty
hard--
and with a hole in the bottom--
but with a clatter, a ring, a voice.

Simple pot--
lover of roots
holder of earth
grower of seeds
pleaser of eyes
upended bell--
you have but one enemy,
and so
oddly,
it is the hole
that saves you.

You remind me of this
when the hole
is in my heart:
After I go through the fire
I will have a new voice.