'Cause let's face it,
Mondays can be so
rough, hard, difficult.
O, Gather Me the Rose
- William Ernest Henley
O, gather me the rose, the rose,
While yet in flower we find it,
For summer smiles, but summer goes,
And winter waits behind it!
For with the dream foregone, foregone,
The deed forborne for ever,
The worm, regret, will canker on,
And time will turn him never.
So well it were to love, my love,
And cheat of any laughter
The death beneath us and above,
The dark before and after.
The myrtle and the rose, the rose,
The sunshine and the swallow,
The dream that comes, the wish that goes,
The memories that follow!
Woman Feeding ChickensHer hand is at the feedbag at her waist,sunk to the wrist in the rustling grainthat nuzzles her fingertips when lacedaround a sifting handful. It’s like rain,like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,the cracks between the fingers like a sieve,except that less escapes you through the chinkswhen handling grain. She likes to feel it givebeneath her hand’s slow plummet, and the smell,so rich a fragrance she has never quitegot used to it, under the seeming spellof the charm of the commonplace. The whitehens bunch and strut, heads cocked, with tilted eyes,till her hand sweeps out and the small grain flies.from: A Far Allegiance, Copyright 2010.
Bleak Weather- Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Dear love, where the red lillies blossomed and grew,The white snows are falling;And all through the wood, where I wandered with you,The loud winds are calling;And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,Neath the elm—you remember,Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June,And left us—December.Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun,And false in the shadows.He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone,Greener woodlands and meadows.What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea,Let it drift on the heather!We can sing through it all; I have you—you have me,And we’ll laugh at the weather.The old year may die, and a new one be bornThat is bleaker and colder;But it cannot dismay us; we dare it—we scorn,For love makes us bolder.Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea,Thou friend in fair weather;But here is a song sung, that’s fuller of glee,By two warm hearts together.
The Definition of Gardening- James TateJim just loves to garden, yes he does.He likes nothing better than to put onhis little overalls and his straw hat.He says, "Let's go get those tools, Jim."But then doubt begins to set in.He says, "What is a garden, anyway?"And thoughts about a "modernistic" gardenbegin to trouble him, eat away at his resolve.He stands in the driveway a long time."Horticulture is a groping in the darkinto the obscure and unfamiliar,kneeling before a disinterested secret,slapping it, punching it like a Chinese puzzle,birdbrained, babbling gibberish, dig anddestroy, pull out and apply salt,hoe and spray, before it spreads, burn roots,where not desired, with gloved hands, poisonous,the self-sacrifice of it, the self-love,into the interior, thunderclap, excruciating,through the nose, the earsplitting necrologyof it, the withering, shriveling,the handy hose holder and Persian insect powderand smut fungi, the enemies of the iris,wireworms are worse than their parents,there is no way out, flowers as big as heads,pock-marked, disfigured, blinking insolentlyat me, the me who so loves to gardenbecause it prevents the heaving of the groundand the untimely death of porch furniture,and dark, murky days in a large cityand the dream home under a permanent stormis also a factor to keep in mind."
from: Shroud of the Gnome,Copyright 1997.