It''ll grow, or it won't

Spade.
Shovel.
Pitchfork.
Pickaxe.

Spade.
Shovel.
Pitchfork.
Pickaxe.

The tools of my father.
He was a teacher, but he wasn't.
The pen, the ruler, the paper, the desk, the lesson.
Those were not his tools.

From 15 feet away, his 70 year old eyes could see exactly
which kind of flower bulb I had sat on the porch to be planted.
They were broken off, covered in dirt, but still he knew.
"Just dig a little hole and throw it in there.
It'll grow, or it won't, and it'll be beautiful."

Spade.
Shovel.
Pitchfork.
Pickaxe.

bulbs hastas mower rocks dogs chickens gas mulch oil rope hose wood
manure shit piss anger beer whiskey bourbon scotch rye fathers funerals
mothers memories cats skies raindrops sounds silences
dirt

Spade.
Shovel.
Pitchfork.
Pickaxe.

"There are no rules in my garden."



10/26/2016  AAW