It’s almost trite for a poet to have a garden, the seed being the original metaphor and all. I don’t grow anything practical. I used to grow tomatoes until I battled with a fungus of some kind and lost three years in a row. I grow flowers. Two, now three beds of perennials. It is 8:30 and now is the best time to put in new plants, when the sun is still stretching and the temperature is low. I don’t like sweating in the high heat hours, but I have to confess that I like the feeling of the warm dirt on my knees. It is more comforting than flannel sheets, as soothing as a backrub.
Kelly started a blog last night. I read it and it made me cry and served as a reminder of how important it is to jot down memories before they go the way of the morning dew.