The morning dew kisses
the flowers in bloom,
bringing a new brightness
to the morning gloom.
Sparkling reflections
from the Sun's early rays,
bring all of the joy
to viewing the grandest of days.

A golden, yellow curve entwines,
amongst the Tulip petals.
Tulip flowers; the delicate curve
of a Lover's breast, standing
with stems erect, as if in prayer,
as they genuflect among
the grey-green altar leaves.
Long is the beauty, visions to be
of Spring flowers, showing their
wares against the Grape Hyacinth
and golden Daffodils.

Out the window glass pane,
I see the splatter of more rain.
Rain is nature's own life source
of growing seasons, of course.

More rain has fallen
and the grass is quite green,
as I look from the window
at the streets wet sheen.
We need a warmer Sun
to boost the flowers growth,
bringing back the Spring colors,
which I now love the most.

I feel the dampness as I kneel
down on the grass.
My knees are exposed. When
I work in the flower garden,
I wear jean shorts.
Roots from a large Maple tree,
mar the dark soil.
As I work, planting bulbs
in a hostile piece of dirt,
full of roots and rocks.
Dig down to the level you need
to plant the bulbs, usually 6 inches.
Do not forget to place
the chicken wire, screen
or you will find some bulbs
planted by your squirrel in
other parts of the yard, next Spring.

Where is the one, who started it all?
When did he decide to never call,
a shovel a spade or to rake with tines,
and move the leaves, which entwine,
among the flexible teeth of the tool.
Why do we rake leaves, when wet?
Are we just an old fool?

The snow fell,
covering the ground,
muffling the noise,
quiet the sound.
A light wind,
down from the hills,
removing the snow
from my Daffodils.
Less than a month,
for a new Spring
and for some Sun,
flowers to bring.

I see so much new growth
in our flower beds.
I am praying now,
for this projected freeze,
to pass us by,
for the joy I see now
may turn into a cry
if the Frost attacks the
tender new growth.
Snow is OK as young
plants handle it well.
No so much the old plants
as snow will act like an
undisciplined pruner.

This is the time of the year
I like least
for I see the new growth and
the Frost Beast
rears it's ugly head to freeze
and to feast
on the new growth of my plants
tender at least.

May I speak freely
about Elf's and Gnome's.
Those of the garden variety,
where they make their homes.

There was a starkness amongst the
barren branches of trees in
the Arboretum, on this grey,
Christmas Day.
And yet, there was a sign of
welcome. A sign of a Spring,
yet to come.
Plants are beginning an early bud.
Daffodils are showing their tips,
an offering the Rabbit will choose
to ignore.
Hellebores are close to a bloom.
A glorious sight on this hallowed day.

Where is the joy, which life will bring?
Is it in the early year, a new Spring,
When bulbs and plants do their thing,
As the flowers bloom and birds sing?

I heard the death rattle
of leaves in the Fall,
as the sharpness of Frost
was making a house call.
The leaves turning a yellow
and as I do not recall,
to the reddest of reds,
not just one, but all.

The sound of an early evening breeze,
pushing and pulling branches and leaves.
Is an eerie sound; it will not appease
until the rattle of tree limbs are at ease.

I feel tree roots
beneath my toes,
as I stumble on those,
trying not to fall,
for if I do,
it will be hard
to get up,
for me not for you.

The bloom of the Rose
is gone, not here any more.
No more the color,
only the dryness; the remains
of what was a beautiful,
example in this garden, ours.

The wind gusts against tree and limb,
rattling the leaves; creating a din.
Small, dead branches fall without sound,
amongst the Maple leaves covering the ground.
Break out the rakes, for a short while.
Start raking those leaves into a pile.
Pick up all leaves, at the scene,
to get a jump on this Fall scene.

If a Rose is a Rose,
what do you suppose,
is the plant by my toes?
It was pretty, once
and went away.
The foliage, not much.
Just want to say,
will it grow anew?
This I will pray
it will come again
on a new Spring day.

The wandering flower,
a marauding vine,
may produce soon
a very tasty wine.
Nothing like a
cluster of grape,
to have eyes see
with my mouth agape.

Out of our window,
I see the street is wet.
A passing shower,
Is OK with me
For it brings water
To keep the earth moist,
While keeping our water bill,
Much lower, of course.
The fresh smell of air,
Cleansed, for a while
Is a relief for this
Tired man, who now smiles.