gardening music Perennials spring weather winter


If I had to choose one season out of the four as my favorite it would be spring. I love the essence of spring, its aroma, its colors. I love the sound of spring peepers (Pseudacris crucifer), calling out from the pond that lies next to my wife’s herb garden. It’s such a grandiose time, new life is sprouting everywhere. Spring rejuvenates my soul. I’m always amazed by the transformation from the browns and grays of winter, to the sharp contrasting yellows, reds, and whites of spring.

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It might seem depressing when you think about everything that’s going on outside our little slice of real estate; the missing Malaysian jet, Russian aggression, and who knows what else? But the seasons never notice any of it. Trees still leaf out in spring, perennial flowers creep to life, and my grass will keep me busy mowing for the first few weeks of warm weather. And that’s what helps keep me grounded, that and music. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t plant a flower or pick an old guitar every once in a while.


If I were a collector of sorts, it’d be hard to choose what I would want to collect most: new and rare flowers or new and rare guitars.


I’d be okay with either. As long as I can still smell and hear spring!

'Mom's' Forsythia
‘Mom’s’ Forsythia
fall gardening poetry The Aging Process weather writing

Often is never often enough (and OUCH! my left foot hurts!)

Once or twice a week, once every couple of weeks, a couple times a month; It seems I can’t ever get a grip on the regularity of blogging. Is that a bad thing? Perhaps not for a writer. But it always feels like I’m “talking” to myself. Some folks do, I’ve heard my wife talk to herself a time or two. (I wonder if she’s ever gotten into an argument with herself and lost.)

Today while digging out weeds and spent tomato plants with the garden fork  my left foot slipped after the fork came to an abrupt halt; big rocks will do that. It’s hard to explain exactly how it happened, but geez-O-man did it hurt the arch on my left foot! I’m limping like I broke it or something, but actually it’s just another sign of the aging process – I can’t go at it like I used to 10 years ago, these bones are getting brittle (I should have been wearing sturdier boots, not flimsy rubber garden clogs).

The trees will be bare within a couple of weeks. But their fall foliage fest can be absolutely stunning. Some say it’s more colorful when certain weather conditions are met, but I’ve not been able to prove it one way or the other. When the trees are on fire with color in autumn I try not to think about what happens soon after that fire is extinguished. I know there has to be four seasons, but if there were only three and we still had 365 days in a year would it be so bad?



Down in Tucker Hollow

I first came to believe

the sun couldn’t shine endlessly

sometimes it has to grieve


The river bottom called me

with a whisper loud as hell,

“never doubt your heart,” it said

“or fear what lies ahead.”


But I have fears and a doubting heart

borne from running fast and far,

never stopping long enough

to catch a falling star.


What if that whisper meant to be a scream,

my shadow’s favorite friend,

calling me with roses,

prickly fixes for the end?


Lie down, disappear, float away

on the river’s cold gray mist,

and when you arrive please tell me

is there any more than this?