Category: Gardening

His overalls display a patch
And sometimes, holes that show.
His neighborsr clothes he cannot match–
His soul is “whole-err” though…

by Ray Romine Thursday, November 22, 1951

I see him, calm, unhurried. planting seeds
Of marigolds, calendulas and pinks.
With care he drops each miracle, and thinks
Of tender greening shoots; and later, heeds
With rarest pleasure each one’s fussy needs.
He straightens from hand weeding. His back kinks
Are vanished quickly, for his mind’s eye links
Imposing beauty to the toil and weeds.

Still later, when some visitor exclaims
At all the loveliness his work-play reaps;
At his green thumb and growing secrets here,
He smilingly and earnestly disclaims
Such help. His flowers nod. Their secret keeps;
They thrive in his contented atmosphere.

by Ray Romine Thursday, November 22, 1951

I walked among the garden rows
Last evening just at dusk,
Clinbing over melons
Both water-kind end musk;
I dodged the corn that hung its ears
High above my head,
And laughed to see the beets I’ve grown-
Like pumpkins, only red.
I trembled at the lettuce
From seed in thirty days,
And wondered at the zinnias
That set my world ablaze.
I paused to check the asters,
Big as dinner plates–
But the morning glories stopped me
(The kind called Pearly Gates)-
Saint Peter, in my mind ‘s eye, was
Regarding me with ire,
For fishing’s not the ONLY sport
That makes a man a liar!

by Ray Romine Sunday, March 26, 1950

He owns a hefty power-mower
Whose lawn is roughly two-by-fower.
While I, with lots and lots more land,
Must cut the growing grass by hand.

by Ray Romine Saturday, September 2, 1950

Who loves a green and well-groomed lawn
Expends upon it time and brawn,
And is rewarded for his labors
By killing looks from unmowed neighbors.

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 12, 1951

In spite of spray, and hoe, and missile,
We have succumbed to bug and thistle,
And adding up what we have spent
For seeds and dusts and liniment,
We’ll see in future, we conclude,
Florists for flowers and grocers for food.

by Ray Romine Friday, October 12, 1951

Only God a tree can make;
But he leaves the leaves for me to rake .

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 26, 1950

Beneath those weeds, if you will pardon
The tense employed here, lay my garden.

by Ray Romine Saturday, May 20, 1950

Questioning, curious, he wanted to help,
So she let him space tiny seeds
In their furrows. “Pat gently; we’ll water them well,
And later on look out for weeds.

“Then one day the flower will riot and bloom
So that butterfly, bird-friend, and bee
Will visit our garden to dance and to sing,
And surely they’ll thank you and me.”

But much more than flowers they planted this day,
As mother well knew from the start;
For who can predict what in future may grow
From the seed gently placed in his heart?

by Ray Romine Saturday, April 7, 1951

A little earth, and a handful of seeds,
Some rain, and the sunshine, are all the needs
Of my garden. Of course there is sweat in it too–
For every pleasure there’s work to do.
But, counting the miracles that spring:
The colors, the fragrance, the scissored charm
Of the blossoms; and the tongue-tempting sing
Of my own green eating from a backyard “farm”,
I can discount my labor as one of the needs;
Which leaves me God–and a handful of seeds.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, January 15, 1946