Gardening

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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
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