I dug so hard I broke my spade. Roots. Some as thick as my arm.
Pots I have lots of. Patience, not so much. But I’m trying really hard to cultivate it.
An anniversary – of sorts… And as clear as mud:
Banana skins actually. And coffee grounds…
It more than just occasionally feels as if the act of gardening amounts to not much more than shifting a lot of dirt around. Then shifting a lot more. Then shifting it all back again. Dig, shift, dig, shift, dig, shift, dig…
That’s entirely wishful thinking on my husband’s part! In truth, gardening is the best therapy in the world. For me, at least.
Beyond the opening rhyme of this blog, the collection of poems which closely followed took a decidedly melancholic turn before finally chilling out with a veggie lunch.