Hands In The Dirt

hands in the dirtGentle readers, I promise you that I tried to plod through the drama of the past two weeks.  I did.  I DID!  But then…I got swept up in the whirlwind and found myself trapped under my house and my ruby slippers were stolen by this chick carrying a dog in a picnic basket…

Okay.  Maybe not.

Anyway, I lost my footing and slid down the hill into chaos and knew not how to find my way out of the mire.  Then, this Sunday, I thought to myself….”go weed.”  So I did.  When I came back inside, I felt more grounded (heh, grounded.  Get it?) and able to concentrate.

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Here Comes Spring!

ForsythiaHere at the Palatial Horvath Estate, the catkins on the pussy willows are full to bursting, the forsythia have started to bloom with golden splendor, and the robins are busy building nests in both the forsythia and the pussy willow.

Yes, okay, the winter juncos are still here, but the red-winged blackbirds are showing their red shoulder patches and singing to entice the ladies. Ducks from the nearby pond have started pairing up, waddling two-by-two for take-out at my bird feeders. This morning a love sick mallard quacked a NEVER ENDING song to the object of his affection right under my bedroom window.

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I Like Trees


I like trees. I like looking at them. When I was younger, I wanted to live inside a tree like the kid in the book “My Side Of The Mountain”. Sometimes I still do.

One of my first poems, written when I was in third grade, was about a tree I used to climb in the backyard. By “climb”, I mean that I went up maybe one branch. The poem was a longish ode, but I only remember the first two lines.
 

My tree and me
Are as happy as can be

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