Spent the morning pulling weeds and feeding flowers and vegetables. Though the garden is a time for clearing the mind of thoughts it sometimes clears the paths to see the way.
I pull out long blades of grass, the roots running out a foot or more tieing sentences together. Weeds like words not quite as meaningful as a tomato plant or tuber of a dahlia planted and tended with care. And yet despite the loving attention some pepper plants are not comfortable, not thriving in their selected spots and so I move them. They sit for days, run into weeks without a sign of growth. I fiddle with the soil around their feet, and during the night when I cannot even see them, they sprout and blossom.
Sometimes.
Maybe then I am not a gardener of words, as I would want to be. Maybe I need still to learn the soil and season.
Maybe.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology