The dirt all muddy, Why my mother love it so I don't know. I enjoy it some, but not as much as her. She askes me to help her. Her fingers all muddy with soil. I said no because I was going somewhere. But in the end I always end up helping. The dirtier the more fun I say asI throw some dirt in the air getting it in my hair. The little seedlings, like babies in bloom. Small fragile and delicate. Handled with care. Their mothers protecting them from the harsh May rains. Protecting them until they poke out to the first sun ray. Getting it's energy and food. Lets hope it lives. For Gods sake. Since in the Garden Of Life. Friends Are the Flowers In Bloom.
Reason for writing:
This poem also was writen for my mother gadening homepage. (Garden Gazebo) This i sone of my favorite poem that I have writen. If you like it email me back.
~Esmerelda~ 13/f
Birth sign: Not entered
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