An Idiots Guide to Gardening

By

Harold Anderson

In the waning days of summer,

In the drought days of September,

With the searing pain of shingles,

Armed with mower and with a tiller

I attacked the grassy tangle

Of the tired and spent remainder

Of my summer garden.

I planted seeds in beds of dust,

Thinking it was just

A day or two until the rain –

But none came.

The weather guessers guessed at rain-

But they missed their guess again, and again, and again.

No need to fret and hate,

But rather to accept my fate –

And irrigate.

I approached my kinked and tangles hose,

Over where the high grass grows

And for weeks,

It had lain unused in vain.

I bent over and

OH THE PAIN, THE PAIN,

MY BACK! THE PAIN!

On hands and knees, I dragged the hose

To where the male end goes

Into the fitting of the Rainbird.

Now the Rainbird sang its watery song –

“Ka-shup, ka-sup, shuba, shuba, shuba –

Every day – some days all day long

Now, there it was, finally, at last:

Tiny seedlings:

Mustard, turnips, kale and blades of grass, and grass and grass

I couldn’t bend over, so I squatted or sat on my, uh, britches

And thinned the plants and pulled the grass –

Laborious work, but worth it all

Nothing’s quite as good as greens in fall!

Blow the horn, I’ve conquered all!

Remember the Alamo!

Remember the Maine!

I’ve preservered over drought and pain!

Shingles were bad, back surgery worse,

But no, CALL AN AMBULANCE, NO A HERSE!

I thought I’d won –

Had climbed that hill,

But OH MY GOSH –

It’s the big one! I’m coming ‘Lizbeth,

I just saw my water bill!