Kneeling in the Garden on a Rainy Morning
“Whose weeds are these?” I ask a sparrow.
Guess I’ll get out my trowel and wheelbarrow
Though my arthritic knees are killing me
And my fingers ache down to their marrow.
This tiny bird must think it strange
That I his garden rearrange.
Since he doesn’t view these plants as pests,
Does he even notice the rain?
He leaps on the fence for better view
of my artful dislodging around the bamboo,
Yet with capable beak he refuses to dig;
Not one dandelion or pigweed does he pursue.
A garden, with LABOR, will yield broccoli and kale
If the weeds don’t take over. “Not another!” I wail,
With hours to go before I can bail,
With hours to go before I can bail.
Day 8! Only 22 to go! Viva NaPoWriMo! Today, the optional prompt was to re-write a famous poem giving it our own spin. I left it up to fate, closed my eyes, grabbed a random book from my poetry shelves and, still without looking, opened to a page, any page. Voila! it was Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” on page 25 of Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook. Here’s the original:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.