Poetry From Out In the Garden

As I sit under the tree in my garden, my scissors clipping, My fingers leaves' stripping, Twigs snapping, Branches cracking, The cat by my feet napping, My mind is busy composing, My next poem, which you should find gripping, The page dripping, With words that need no editing, Phrases that are enlightening, Paragraphs to make smiles enchanting, Subject, not just for the discerning. The sun that my back, was warming, Is now dipping, And a bit too cooling, So, to inside I will be withdrawing, For my fingers to start warming, Enough, for them to set keyboard tapping, This poem for the sending. My mind now looking at resting, While imagining the dinner that has been slowly roasting, Which I can't wait to be tasting, With gravy that is now ready for pouring, And now I have given you an ending, I hope your mind, you will be employing, For reading, And enjoying.