Till, We Meet Again
Each year, I am most grateful when
my tiller and I meet again
to dance among the garden beds,
and I am still able to lead,
although at times I’m prone to plead,
“Will you please start yourself instead?”
For pulling back upon that string
is not always an easy thing,
and even worse, to lift the beast,
to move it to adjacent bed
while limiting expletives said,
or muttering them low, at least.
The task is done, the beds are tilled,
and now I am quite simply thrilled
to hand my wife the garden keys
so she can plant from sprout or seed,
and she can water, even weed
or anything her heart does please.
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