by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
For the past two weeks my kitchen cabinet and patio table have alternately served as the gathering place for a cluster of young garden plants - tomatoes and peppers - that I have been waiting to plant. My efforts to get the plants in the ground have been hampered by spring rains and an abundance of weeds that need to be pulled in order to find the beds where the new plants will reside. Yesterday it all finally started to come together and I managed to get twelve tomato plants in the ground and eight pepper plants. I still have four pepper plants to go, but with today's beautiful weather, I should have those planted by lunchtime.
Then, perhaps as early as this afternoon, I will begin putting some seed crops into the ground. I have two beds reserved for corn, one for squash, and a nice trellis under which I will plant sugar snap peas.
I love the hopeful nature of spring when everything starts its climb toward the heavens, vibrant and fresh. By late summer, of course, as the crops begin to wither and turn brown and the weeds start taking over - despite my best efforts to keep them at bay - and gardening will have lost much of its luster. But right now, in early spring, planting a garden in a magical experience!
Today's poem "There Gardener" by Robert Louis Stevenson, portrays an old gardener hard at work in his patch through the eyes of a child. Can their be any truer vision than that of a child?
The Gardener
by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
And that is Pa Rock's problem in a nutshell: too much time pushing the barrow and not enough play!
Poetry Appreciator
For the past two weeks my kitchen cabinet and patio table have alternately served as the gathering place for a cluster of young garden plants - tomatoes and peppers - that I have been waiting to plant. My efforts to get the plants in the ground have been hampered by spring rains and an abundance of weeds that need to be pulled in order to find the beds where the new plants will reside. Yesterday it all finally started to come together and I managed to get twelve tomato plants in the ground and eight pepper plants. I still have four pepper plants to go, but with today's beautiful weather, I should have those planted by lunchtime.
Then, perhaps as early as this afternoon, I will begin putting some seed crops into the ground. I have two beds reserved for corn, one for squash, and a nice trellis under which I will plant sugar snap peas.
I love the hopeful nature of spring when everything starts its climb toward the heavens, vibrant and fresh. By late summer, of course, as the crops begin to wither and turn brown and the weeds start taking over - despite my best efforts to keep them at bay - and gardening will have lost much of its luster. But right now, in early spring, planting a garden in a magical experience!
Today's poem "There Gardener" by Robert Louis Stevenson, portrays an old gardener hard at work in his patch through the eyes of a child. Can their be any truer vision than that of a child?
The Gardener
by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
And that is Pa Rock's problem in a nutshell: too much time pushing the barrow and not enough play!
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