Gardening
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They drop in from time to time to have a bit of seed,
Cock their heads, look my way then go about their feed.
Let my garden be a song to you,
When dawn wakes the bird to praise.
Let the woodpecker hammer out your glory!
Let my garden be a song to you,
When dawn wakes the bird to praise.
Let the woodpecker hammer out your glory!
My fingers hurt, but not as bad as before.
Maybe because the numbness is going away and the actual pain is revealing itself.
But sometimes pain like that is good,
if only because it means we are healing...
O you of strong shoulders
Hands quaking, aching to hold boulders
In place of warm hands and hot meals
Your hoe carving furrows
Sending a message, it burrows
Deep into my heart.
When the pencil shade is lighter
an the sun glares brighter
I find myself struggling with prose
yet the world turns cold
and soon my verses will grow old
I must always have my blue rose
They talk to me.
The decapitated heads are
sprinkled around my feet.
Each with their jaw closed tight,
waiting for the opportunity
to speak.
When I met you I knew it was too good to be true
and I was right
while I thought gardening is what was bringing us together
it was actually tearing us apart
The life of a gardener is a never-ending battle between life and death.
There was no point in saving that part of the garden, for it was long gone.
The flowers, dead and dry, no longer vibrant with color, laid stiffly parallel to the ground.
The soil, too, was devoid of nutrients.
Pull up the green, uncover the brown.
Lift to the limit, then let down the force.
Swing to the beat thrice on each side.
Position then angle, then wedge, then wrench off.
Five suckers a day keeps trouble away.
There's a hen outside my window,
No, seriously:
A hen.
Four in fact, 'cause I'm a farmer
In the suburbs. Sound strange?
You bet,
I'm told I'm strange every day.
That's cool.
I'm used to it, but
