The older I get, the more I love gardening.
I have commented previously in this column about my ambivalence towards gardening -- the result of a childhood spent watching my parents slave away each weekend in their garden -- and the unfavorable gardening conditions in my own rock-infested, tree-shaded yard. One could quite rightly characterize my current relationship with my garden as "rocky."
Grandparents get to do whatever they want -- that's my philosophy.
We are starting to move outward now. The turning point came a few days before Easter, when I looked outside one morning and saw that there was more bare ground than snow visible through the window.
Raiding the Feeders
The bear I saw was the shadow
of my father passing my room,
locking his briefcase, walking out the door
at dawn. And not this spring country one
who apparently didn’t eat enough berries
and fish to keep him asleep. These days
I want to run out of my winter stored fat.
And rise early in my neighborhood,
to see who was there by his or her tracks.