Oh, for a rose garden.

 I love this time of year, when the trees are dark and the flowers in bloom.
The yard is lovely, and the evening air simultaneously stimulates and sedates.

Mom wields a trowel.
I wield bland jokes and girl-talk topics.

Sometimes I wield a hose.

When Time doesn't hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I might get my hands dirty.
Occasionally even when Time does hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I give him a pile-drive to the face, take his blasted midget-shovel, and get my hands dirty anyway.

Mom instructs me.
I instruct them dagnabbit weeds.

One day I'll instruct some perennials of my own.

While clippers and grandma-esque knee-pads are encouraged, shoes are not.
Though it makes for a dirty experience, the soil feels better when fondled by my feet. (SCANDY PUN'D!!!)

Mom does the planter baskets.
I do the vase arrangements.

Peonies and pine-sprigs. Roses and Ruscus.

It's difficult to pick a favorite time for garden-loving, since crisp mornings and luminous evenings go head-to-head so regally.
I like when the earth is half-lit and the plants are beautiful.


  1. Replies
    1. That's it. Just for this, I'm sending you heavily-perfumed love poems to Turkey with no return address. Exclusively. But really.



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