I have always suspected it
Now maybe it has been proved
We are never more human
than when we are gardening

There is something about soil
fingers getting black and gritty
touching a young seed
tucking it in a well prepared bed

Not for sleep but for
both growth and rest
for feeling the pull
of the moon

On its slender shooting self
Humans as gardeners
are human indeed
to me

Pruning too
I love pruning
can go hours with those lopper things in hand
snipping here and there

Sculpting my yard
by inches
and loving it
Being human

Even if you don't believe
the biblical story
about how this all began
you gotta admit it is a beautiful story
about being all too human

Under grey clouds in her garden
Her briny pond still larger grew.
To cacophony turned her wren
And her white rabbit into shrew.

The passing seasons, she did not heed
For wintry dusk was all she knew.
But then in that throng of ****
A little rose bud sprang into view

Its petals white, then pink, then red
But she had eyes for only its thorn
Not water, but lopper she turned instead
And nipped the blossom ere it was born

Which fell, on weeds that ne'er seek pardon
As chopping blocks to winter buds they mew
Under grey clouds in her garden
Her briny pond still larger grew

That lopper-thingie on the end of a pole
Indelicately intrudes among the leaves
Telescoped out, its harsh geometry
Unnatural among the greenery

There seeking out an elusive apple spared
The nightly browsings of the day-shy deer
Or the nightly pillagings of raccoons
Who destroy more than they will ever eat

But there’s that apple – careful, careful – snip:
And down it falls, with an apple-saucy flip!