my mother and I play gardener every summer. we constantly are planting flowers and putting mulch down. We touch up our rock garden and tend to the flowers inside.
on a stormy day I’m still In my garden
on a rainy day I’m still in my garden
on a snowy day I’m still in my garden
on a sunny day I’m obviously in my garden
the gardener sublimes his way through a meadow;
plucking, only, the fine dandelions, passing up
the under-average weed sticks,
for,
he cares not to waste time fudging around with
the infantile, the meager, bestowments of mother nature!
The lawn was cut to precision, almost disgustingly so. It was clearly real grass, but it still looked like AstroTurf. Which was not the desired effect.
Or was it?
When you saw the woman that owned the lawn, her cheeks drawn too tightly, her eyes a little too wide, her lips much too full, you understood that perhaps the look of artificiality wasn’t something she was avoiding.
The gardener stared at the empty field like an artist facing blank canvas. as he stepped into the field the earth from pervious years drifted off of his jeans and mixed with the fresh stuff.
The gardener had an evil secret! He was secretly an spy and was trying to find a map of the building so his backup team could get him out if a fight broke out inside.
Three years ago in architecture school, I recall my professor–who’s a landscape architect–discussing the history of gardening. Apparently, ‘garden’ was derived from the words ‘gan’ and ‘eden’ which in Hebrew translates as; ‘to defend’ and ‘paradise’ respectively. I remember back then while I grudgingly wait for her class to end, I sarcastically thought that if ‘garden’ meant ‘to defend paradise’, then technically, gardeners are the guardians of the yard.
She liked being a gardener. She loved the beautiful colors of the different flowers. She did strongly dislike pulling weeds out of the flower beds. Doesn’t everybody?
He sits in a field of flowers. His face is hidden by a rusted fog lamp helmet. The light within flickers incessantly, blinding the space around him sharply. His hands clasp loosely onto an oversized giant scissors that whines loudly with each snap of grass. Danny holds his breath as he turns back, trying to pretend that wasn’t blood he saw on the greying silver edge.
One who gardens; one who grows plants or cultivates a garden.
He who takes care of the flora, and takes care of anyone or anything that will disrupt or destroys thy plants, and never or less must be a Shakespearian!
Thy will plant and take care of thy plants.
The gardener is patient. She snips some flowers and lays them by her side. She sees a bug and squashes it. She mows the lawn over the grave, then sits down next to the mound and starts to talk. She waits through the evening for a response, then…
My teacher is an avid gardener. She seems to connect every class period to gardening and the environment. One time, in my literature class, she took us to a local school to plant vegetable seeds with the children. It had no real connection to the class, but it was nice to do.
My dad was a gardener. He loved his fruit trees. He had just about one of everything in his garden. As a child, I would spend loads of time trying all of the exotic fruits he had. My favorite was the jaboticaba. I’m sure that’s spelled incorrectly.
It was a hot day in July. The two police officers were standing in front of the flower bed in puzzlement. The case had been dragging on for several years now but they finally were finally close to figuring out what had happened.
The gardener, so loyal to our house more than to the family, was ill. I realized I had never asked his name and that I didn’t know anything about him. His hands, used to planting flowers and pulling trees, knew nothing more than the earth.
His mother was a gardener, but he had not inherited any of her green thumb. If his thumb was to have a color, it would be a pale, fading yellow, like the slowly wilting flowers growing on his back porch. He had tried fertilizer, watering, pest control, and many other things, but they would not yield.
I fashion myself a god because I do not fall in love
I know myself to be a devil when I smile constantly
I limit myself in the shape of a human to cry thin salted tears
Yet, I’d rather be a leaf I think – drifting away, without tears or happiness or love. In that way, plants and I are rather alike, living with no intrinsic wish to.
Gardener. I don’t think I could ever be one. I don’t like having dirt under my fingernails. I don’t like bugs. I don’t like being outside. Although, many times I do wish that I could work up the nerve to do it. I love the look of fruit on trees. I love the look of fresh flowers, even though they cause me to get nosebleeds and sneeze. I couldn’t be one, but I would love to know one.
Don’t say hello the gardener, the one wearing the cap so red. He’ll squirt you with his hose and stick flowers up your nose and he’ll slam his rake on top on your head. Don’t say hello to the gardener, with the droopy jowl and permanent frown. If he had only caught a train or a just ascending plane to a new life in a brand new town.
Why do stories depict gardeners as old and weathered with walrus mustaches?
I see young gardeners out in the pouring rain, head tilted back, laughing at the sky, and talking to the plants they care for. I see young gardeners with nervous faces at fairs, waiting to get the judges’ word on how they did, and then jumping in excitement when they’re praised.
Last week I read a story in english class about death. Death came knocking for the master but the gardener saw him first so he thought he was gonna die. Fortunately that was not the case at all. The master died which im cool with. he was arrogant as all hell.
the paiinting of the fence was an annual celebration in their gardening union; indeed, no one gardener could mention the date of May coming up without a chuckle of fondness or a smile of anticipation. It wasn’t until the date of April 30th that a murmur choked the glee out of the gardeners: a murder had happened right at the edge of the property.
He had always wanted to be a gardener. His family had lived in an apartment when he was a child – some little two room thing six stories up. The balcony had only been big enough to hold a single flower box, lined with three little plants. Every spring he looked forward to picking out that year’s flowers, but he always dreamed of the day he’d have his own garden.
Funny thing about stories, the gardener is always old. And grumpy. They have walrus white mustaches, fierce gray eyes, and brandish hoes with stern consternation and a threatening air. They’re always softer and more gentle than everyone realizes and redeem themselves in the end. That’s not my idea of gardener.
To me a gardener is always whistling, always smiling. The gardener loves the elements including the rain. I can see a young laughing gardener in the rain, head tilted back, enjoying the cold wet water running down his tan face. That, to me is a gardener. That picture in the rain.
My mother is a gardener. Today I took a Praxis exam and I was wondering whether or not to mention gardening, but I decided not to include it because I did not want my tone to sound cocky. My mother has a vegetable garden and spents a lot of time working outside in the summer, but I do not want her to because it puts strain on the back.
My mother seems to count as a gardener. Today I took a Praxis exam, so I was thinking whether or not to write about a gardener, but I didn’t want to seem to have a cocky tone, in a way. My mother has a garden and spents a lot of time in the summer, but I do not want her too because it’s a strain on the back.
she kneels in the soil
and prints grass on her knees
there’s a hole in this flower
with a flap opening out
i watch and pray
that she doesn’t crush
the snails i love
She looked out the window at the gardener. Today he was wearing a navy t-shirt and blue jeans. His hair clung to his for head, wet with sweat. She knew today he would be working on the rose bushes in the back garden. She set the sprinklers to go off while he was out there, he would get wet and need to come in to dry off and turn the sprinklers off. She then would take her plan to the next step.
I looked at my hands. In one fist, as I unfurled it, I saw a seed. In the other, I held I weed.
My tears, as they hit the ground, would provide ample water to whichever I chose to plant. I just had to decide which I wanted to let grow.
Along the path up to my grandmother’s garden, there were orange flowers that stretched up toward the sun as though they had waited as long as we all had for summer. They looked thirsty for the light, hopeful for something better; their colors were so rich, it seemed as if they’d put on their best clothes to say hello to summer. They were beautiful, and sometimes, I would stop to smell them, on the way up to find my grandmother, bent over in the sunlight, finding things to pick from the ground and take upstairs. “What are those orange flowers called?” I asked her one day. She didn’t know, she said, what they were called in English, but they were called–and I can’t remember what that was–in Greek. “Do you like them?” she asked, smiling up at me, looking me over to make sure my face was clean and my hair was washed and I was dressed right. Because my Yiya was the gardener of children and families too. Her flowers were beautiful; her children, flawed. But she expected that. As long as the flaws could be handled and dealt with. My flaw was that I had no patience, she said. She was right.
my mother and I play gardener every summer. we constantly are planting flowers and putting mulch down. We touch up our rock garden and tend to the flowers inside.
on a stormy day I’m still In my garden
on a rainy day I’m still in my garden
on a snowy day I’m still in my garden
on a sunny day I’m obviously in my garden
the gardener sublimes his way through a meadow;
plucking, only, the fine dandelions, passing up
the under-average weed sticks,
for,
he cares not to waste time fudging around with
the infantile, the meager, bestowments of mother nature!
The lawn was cut to precision, almost disgustingly so. It was clearly real grass, but it still looked like AstroTurf. Which was not the desired effect.
Or was it?
When you saw the woman that owned the lawn, her cheeks drawn too tightly, her eyes a little too wide, her lips much too full, you understood that perhaps the look of artificiality wasn’t something she was avoiding.
The gardener stared at the empty field like an artist facing blank canvas. as he stepped into the field the earth from pervious years drifted off of his jeans and mixed with the fresh stuff.
The gardener had an evil secret! He was secretly an spy and was trying to find a map of the building so his backup team could get him out if a fight broke out inside.
Gardener’s tend to garden’s and flowers and bushes and everything outside.
The gardener trims the bushes and mows the lawn and does all of the work outside.
I would like to spend some time to look after veggies and flowers when I get retired as a gardener!
Three years ago in architecture school, I recall my professor–who’s a landscape architect–discussing the history of gardening. Apparently, ‘garden’ was derived from the words ‘gan’ and ‘eden’ which in Hebrew translates as; ‘to defend’ and ‘paradise’ respectively. I remember back then while I grudgingly wait for her class to end, I sarcastically thought that if ‘garden’ meant ‘to defend paradise’, then technically, gardeners are the guardians of the yard.
She liked being a gardener. She loved the beautiful colors of the different flowers. She did strongly dislike pulling weeds out of the flower beds. Doesn’t everybody?
He sits in a field of flowers. His face is hidden by a rusted fog lamp helmet. The light within flickers incessantly, blinding the space around him sharply. His hands clasp loosely onto an oversized giant scissors that whines loudly with each snap of grass. Danny holds his breath as he turns back, trying to pretend that wasn’t blood he saw on the greying silver edge.
Their gardener is responsible for all their trees, bushes and flowers. Everything should look tidy and beautiful.
One who gardens; one who grows plants or cultivates a garden.
He who takes care of the flora, and takes care of anyone or anything that will disrupt or destroys thy plants, and never or less must be a Shakespearian!
Thy will plant and take care of thy plants.
The gardener is patient. She snips some flowers and lays them by her side. She sees a bug and squashes it. She mows the lawn over the grave, then sits down next to the mound and starts to talk. She waits through the evening for a response, then…
on a sunny day outside plating roses, tulips and daisies. red roses. pink roses. the sun giving my flowers life. my garden is beautiful.
My teacher is an avid gardener. She seems to connect every class period to gardening and the environment. One time, in my literature class, she took us to a local school to plant vegetable seeds with the children. It had no real connection to the class, but it was nice to do.
My dad was a gardener. He loved his fruit trees. He had just about one of everything in his garden. As a child, I would spend loads of time trying all of the exotic fruits he had. My favorite was the jaboticaba. I’m sure that’s spelled incorrectly.
It was a hot day in July. The two police officers were standing in front of the flower bed in puzzlement. The case had been dragging on for several years now but they finally were finally close to figuring out what had happened.
the plant that disappeared, eaten by snails, the possibility of cure lost. is there another one?
The gardener, so loyal to our house more than to the family, was ill. I realized I had never asked his name and that I didn’t know anything about him. His hands, used to planting flowers and pulling trees, knew nothing more than the earth.
His mother was a gardener, but he had not inherited any of her green thumb. If his thumb was to have a color, it would be a pale, fading yellow, like the slowly wilting flowers growing on his back porch. He had tried fertilizer, watering, pest control, and many other things, but they would not yield.
I fashion myself a god because I do not fall in love
I know myself to be a devil when I smile constantly
I limit myself in the shape of a human to cry thin salted tears
Yet, I’d rather be a leaf I think – drifting away, without tears or happiness or love. In that way, plants and I are rather alike, living with no intrinsic wish to.
Gardener. I don’t think I could ever be one. I don’t like having dirt under my fingernails. I don’t like bugs. I don’t like being outside. Although, many times I do wish that I could work up the nerve to do it. I love the look of fruit on trees. I love the look of fresh flowers, even though they cause me to get nosebleeds and sneeze. I couldn’t be one, but I would love to know one.
Don’t say hello the gardener, the one wearing the cap so red. He’ll squirt you with his hose and stick flowers up your nose and he’ll slam his rake on top on your head. Don’t say hello to the gardener, with the droopy jowl and permanent frown. If he had only caught a train or a just ascending plane to a new life in a brand new town.
Why do stories depict gardeners as old and weathered with walrus mustaches?
I see young gardeners out in the pouring rain, head tilted back, laughing at the sky, and talking to the plants they care for. I see young gardeners with nervous faces at fairs, waiting to get the judges’ word on how they did, and then jumping in excitement when they’re praised.
I wish I knew more about being a gardener. My thumb is not green by any means. How is master gardener a real thing?
Last week I read a story in english class about death. Death came knocking for the master but the gardener saw him first so he thought he was gonna die. Fortunately that was not the case at all. The master died which im cool with. he was arrogant as all hell.
the paiinting of the fence was an annual celebration in their gardening union; indeed, no one gardener could mention the date of May coming up without a chuckle of fondness or a smile of anticipation. It wasn’t until the date of April 30th that a murmur choked the glee out of the gardeners: a murder had happened right at the edge of the property.
He had always wanted to be a gardener. His family had lived in an apartment when he was a child – some little two room thing six stories up. The balcony had only been big enough to hold a single flower box, lined with three little plants. Every spring he looked forward to picking out that year’s flowers, but he always dreamed of the day he’d have his own garden.
Funny thing about stories, the gardener is always old. And grumpy. They have walrus white mustaches, fierce gray eyes, and brandish hoes with stern consternation and a threatening air. They’re always softer and more gentle than everyone realizes and redeem themselves in the end. That’s not my idea of gardener.
To me a gardener is always whistling, always smiling. The gardener loves the elements including the rain. I can see a young laughing gardener in the rain, head tilted back, enjoying the cold wet water running down his tan face. That, to me is a gardener. That picture in the rain.
My mother is a gardener. Today I took a Praxis exam and I was wondering whether or not to mention gardening, but I decided not to include it because I did not want my tone to sound cocky. My mother has a vegetable garden and spents a lot of time working outside in the summer, but I do not want her to because it puts strain on the back.
My mother seems to count as a gardener. Today I took a Praxis exam, so I was thinking whether or not to write about a gardener, but I didn’t want to seem to have a cocky tone, in a way. My mother has a garden and spents a lot of time in the summer, but I do not want her too because it’s a strain on the back.
she kneels in the soil
and prints grass on her knees
there’s a hole in this flower
with a flap opening out
i watch and pray
that she doesn’t crush
the snails i love
Flowers and vegetables
Flowers and/or vegetables
Hot sun, hard work
Dig, plant, water, water water
Flower bed
Vegetable garden
Watering can
Gardening gloves
plants flowers
plants vegetables
lots of work
backyard garden
flower bed
watering can
She looked out the window at the gardener. Today he was wearing a navy t-shirt and blue jeans. His hair clung to his for head, wet with sweat. She knew today he would be working on the rose bushes in the back garden. She set the sprinklers to go off while he was out there, he would get wet and need to come in to dry off and turn the sprinklers off. She then would take her plan to the next step.
I looked at my hands. In one fist, as I unfurled it, I saw a seed. In the other, I held I weed.
My tears, as they hit the ground, would provide ample water to whichever I chose to plant. I just had to decide which I wanted to let grow.
Along the path up to my grandmother’s garden, there were orange flowers that stretched up toward the sun as though they had waited as long as we all had for summer. They looked thirsty for the light, hopeful for something better; their colors were so rich, it seemed as if they’d put on their best clothes to say hello to summer. They were beautiful, and sometimes, I would stop to smell them, on the way up to find my grandmother, bent over in the sunlight, finding things to pick from the ground and take upstairs. “What are those orange flowers called?” I asked her one day. She didn’t know, she said, what they were called in English, but they were called–and I can’t remember what that was–in Greek. “Do you like them?” she asked, smiling up at me, looking me over to make sure my face was clean and my hair was washed and I was dressed right. Because my Yiya was the gardener of children and families too. Her flowers were beautiful; her children, flawed. But she expected that. As long as the flaws could be handled and dealt with. My flaw was that I had no patience, she said. She was right.