Four hands, two trowels. Peppers hot and mild.
Tomatoes, eggplant, cucumber.
At the bottom of the slope, room for zucchini
and our grandson’s sunflower project
(little does he know)
Soon in a barrel, behind the house.
Half-buried in ivy, an old French plow,
once walked with a horse clear across town by my father
for fifty cents an hour, after the war,
[click to enlarge]
Earlier today: Summer of Dreams