The gardens are
blossoming. A tree lined side and a stained fence. Same with the other. The
tomato plant is ready and will hopefully catch and love the summer sun and the
rains. Maybe it will sprout dashing and robust red tomatoes when the time is ‘ripe.’
The old shed still stands at attention, a faithful friend, shingled, windowed.
There are shrubs near the front and some steps and rocks. The old door has a
sign and some plates from Ontario and from the beloved’s birth place, Virginia.
Yellow and red flowers grow along with the large tree. The mulberry is a late
bloomer, but is coming along. The little green buds on the branches show
promise, and once it gets going it really follows a great momentum. The sun is
rising and the moon setting. The moon then is rising and the sun sets. Foil and
juxtapose and counterpoint. Rocks and limestone crushing. An old tamper, from
the eighties, factory made- welded, painted, re-painted. He has seen more work
than the proletariat set, those these days he is more of a lumpen proletariat.
The yellow sprinkler will dash water across it all. The black industrial hose
will bring the liquid and made it so. Clearness and refreshment. Green grasses
grow in the humid daylight hours and in the deep and textured night. Some old
chimes are around on plant hangers. Cast iron things, river rock, buzzing bees,
curious birds, wandering cats, bits of pebble that glisten in the sun,- the
forest green deck wooden with new steps. A garden…gardens…are worlds.
And what invisible
phantoms, by the Impatience and terra cotta parapets, hover?
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