The world outside is dark, and winter has a tight hold.
The bitter wind howls and everything is inches deep with cold.
It’s months like these I’m in denial, and in my house I hide.
And bide my time with planning for a time I’ll be outside.
I think on how the crocus pop, and herald the start of spring
Then daffodils, tulips, and iris – what wonderful, predictable things.
Oh how I’ll revel digging in the dirt, the stellas must be split.
Always another border to fill with flowers, I’ll never tire of it.
The weeks of spring are a ticking clock, there is much to be planted
Tomatoes, onions, peppers, squash, and kale – take none for granted.
The growing season, hot and long, requires lots of care and feeding.
All the life that wants to live means a fair amount of weeding.
The green grass of summer demands what seems like endless mowing
Which must be done so as to enjoy the rest of what is growing.
The autumn is also no time to rest, and mum really is the word
As the picking of ripened fruit is the only sound that’s heard
’Tis a lot of work, I’ll admit at times it can be quite trying.
But seeing what that hard work brings is very satisfying
Suddenly the house is shaking as the wind picks up again.
And I’m reminded it’s still two more months until the winters end.
This post was inspired by the Writing 201 (Day 9) Prompt: Landscape, Found Poem, Enumeration.