A Poem About Growing Carrots and People
Two methods used, though both new to the task,
To plant the carrot seeds at start of Spring;
The mother’s in a line of well-placed chaff,
The daughter’s scattered, haphazard with a fling,
Then weeks each waited in their pers’nal ways,
Awaiting blooms in stalks, and food to pare,
The mother, chasing daughters, count the days,
The daughter, daily, dancing unaware
Till summer when their plumes have reached a height,
Suspect their keepers these have amply grown,
A jungle and a line, their groupings tight,
Until they’re loosed and pulled, their lives unknown.
A system or a dance, but either way
The ground they pierce; the work that yields the play.
Where our house stands used to be a big greenhouse. We suspect that’s why whatever we plant comes up strong and abundant. When we bought the house the neighbors said “Don’t kill those rose bushes” because the old lady who lived here poured her heart and soul into them. We haven’t, yet. We cut them down to a stump every autumn and they come back thick and tangled every year, blooming multiple times well into the next autumn. Couldn’t kill them if we tried, I guess.
People think it’s hard, gardening, growing young things up into mature things. It is, but then also lots of people do it successfully anyway. Some good things in this life don’t require any extra effort or money, and those things are fine. But then some things take a little work. You have to invest some of your own love sometimes. Those things can be pretty good, too.
Anyway, thanks for reading.
This is Phil.
Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com from Pexels