Poetry, Prose and Primrose… (please note: no primroses were used in the crafting of this post)

“Good weather all the week, but come the weekend the weather stinks.
Springtime for birth, Summertime for growth; and all Seasons for dying.
Ripening grapes in the summer sun – reason enough to plod ahead.
Springtime flows in our veins.
Beauty is the Mistress, the gardener Her salve.
A soul is colored Spring green.
Complexity is closer to the truth.
All metaphors aside – only living beings rise up in the Springtime; dead beings stay quite lie down dead.
Winter does not turn into Summer; ash does not turn into firewood – on the chopping block of time.
Fresh fruit from the tree – sweet summertime!
Gardens are demanding pets.
Shade was the first shelter.
When the Divine knocks, don’t send a prophet to the door.
One spring and one summer to know life’s hope; one autumn and one winter to know life’s fate.
Somehow, someway, everything gets eaten up, someday.
Relax and be still around the bees.
Paradise and shade are close relatives on a summer day.
Absolutes squirm beneath realities.
The spiders, grasshoppers, mantis, and moth larva are all back:  the summer crowd has returned!
To garden is to open your heart to the sky.
Dirty fingernails and a calloused palm precede a Green Thumb.”
–  Michael P. Garofalo, Pulling Onions

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