The trees in some place carry poems on every leaf so that when the wind blows, even slightly, one can catch the poems in the air-filled cavity of her inner ear and let them sing to her. The garden at Green Gulch Farm is such a place. Walking there in the misty air of the first rains of a California fall last Friday, poems vibrated through my ear's spiral cochlea and inner canals. A corner of newsprint and a pencil stub found in the garden shed allowed me to note the starts so I can nurture them into full-grown poems through the years ahead. I'm grateful for gardeners who cultivate soil for the rest of us.