In a pickle, I must choose
Which to keep and which to lose,
Which to weed, and which to use
For a tasty treat.
Eyesight, don’t deceive me now,
Sweat, don’t drip from over brow,
I must save just dill somehow,
So pickles I can eat!
This photo isn’t incredibly exciting – who takes pictures of weeds? But this little poem came to me as I was scrolling through my stash of garden shots, and I thought it was kind of cute! 🙂
Salad on soil plate
Freshly washed by summer rain
Edible mixed greens
Just like a family picnic –
you and your various mini-me’s assemble in riotous good nature,
a plethora of shapes and colours and identities and ages;
a neat baker’s dozen of assorted pastries
dipped in philosophical frosting
and whetted on the milk of human kindness.
Each brings its own flavour as a side-dish;
dessert is served in the sweetness with which
you coddle your brood.