Is it given to know, as our gardens grow,
What life puts on our very own shelves?
Not only do we grow, as we must know,
But we also become gardens ourselves!!!
As we’re born alive, our gardens thrive,
Sprouting new crops that we all share.
It seems remiss not to give some twist
To a garden of which we seem unaware.
What garden is this? You maybe insist,
That I elucidate my crazy claim, indeed.
So I readily shall, and you’ll know well
That the gardens I speak of have weeds.
Teeth grow through, and fingernails too,
While hair makes a welcome appearance.
In a garden of ours, that natural powers
Have fertilized as we grow and advance.
Our gardens thrive each day we’re alive,
We weed our nails, do pruning haircuts,
Cover our freckles, cut hair that tickles,
While blackheads and zits drive us nuts.
We have little choice, we have no voice,
In what crops our personal garden grows.
Lots more surprises when old age arises,
Growing bad seeds as our energy goes.
Up come age spots and many more warts,
And weeds arrive which we call wrinkles.
Then arthritic strife begins growing to life
In our bones as our cataract eyes twinkle.
Our toes grow corns as hair grows gone,
Callouses grow on all our feet and hands.
Blisters oft appear, and long hair on ears
While accidental bruises make demands.
It seems such a strain to endure the pain
Of weeding a garden that we didn’t plant.
Yet we must decide, on this mortal ride,
How to care for it, not deciding we can’t.
I’m simply asking you, what can we do,
But tend these personal gardens of ours?
My whiskers grow out, making me pout,
MY garden does NOT grow any flowers!
© Urban R. Coombs
