A gardener walks her path with grace,
Among the froth of Queen Anne’s lace,
Paints with plants and flowering trees,
A lovely home for birds and bees.
She sits on porch, a shady place,
Sharing fruit of garden’s taste.
A bite of berry, sweet reddish hue….
Vase of lavender, heads of blue.
How fine is this on summer’s day?
But oh, the price there is to pay.
In denim jeans smeared ore with dirt,
This gardener clothed in sweaty shirt.
She dug and hoed and planted deep,
The seeds of love so time would reap,
A harvest worthy of such work,
Where spotted lady bugs would lurk.
Tis’ feast for eyes and taste buds too,
Tomatoes, peppers and meadow rue,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
A gardener’s work in nature’s rhyme.
Tis’ a labor of love she often said,
But early went to feathered bed.
Again to rise with chirping birds,
Coffee first before the words….
“Today I’ll tackle the front yard.
A rose to climb with fence to guard,
Needs food and water, just like us.
The sun is up, I really must…”
Can a gardener be a lady sure,
Knee deep in mulch of brown manure?
Or does she simply let the glow,
Reflect in smile from row to row.
She steps around her greenest friends,
Pruning, weeding til’ daylight ends.
What view do humans get of her?
Elbows and fine, plump derrière.
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