PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The patio is old red brick.

I did the work myself.

Two years ago I laid it in

But with my grandson's help.

The flower beds that line two sides

Have all lain fallow till

This spring when I determined that

With blossoms they'd be filled.

I love a pretty yard and so

For my "Spring Break" I swore

That I would tend those flower beds

A ghastly heavy chore.

At 8:05 this morning

I had donned my leather gloves.

And stepped into the moring light

And breathed the air I love.

With rake and trowel and shovel

I began the long slow plant.

It soon became apparent that

All-fours would be my bent.

I crawled or sat five hours straight

Tilling soil by hand.

Until I couldn't sit or stretch

And needed help to stand.

I raked that dirt a dozen times

Removing any roots,

Turning it to make it soft,

What's that? A pair of boots?

"Hey, Jim,"  said I all smiley

As I looked up to his face.

He laughed, called me "Tar Baby"

Said, "You're a muddy disgrace."

By then Mexican purple sage

Flanked my old birdbath.

Lavendar and silverdust

Filled the curving path.

The job had been a two-day thing

And not what I supposed.

My good right arm would hardly raise

The sun had burned my nose.

But I did not expect to be

Maligned by my sweet Jim.

I propped my hands upon my hips,

Narrowed green eyes at him.

He laughed aloud and shook his head

He said, "You need a bath!"

"Get on up and go inside,"

And then again he laughed.

I was so shocked and angry

That I decided to call it a day

Took to the shower to rinse off the dirt

Then a long hot bath I would take.

Imagine my consternation

As I watched the dirt wash out,

Well, maybe I was a little soiled

I told myself with a pout.

As the clean hot water then filled the tub

Spontaneous was my grin

Brown water floated around me.

"Tar Baby" had fit me then.

Twice I drained the water

And twice it looked like mud.

I laughed so hard my chest hurt

When I stepped out on the rug.

I hadn't seen such a dirty tub

Since my three sons were small,

Rolling around in the summer sun

Playing with Tonkas or balls.

Finally I got the brown off--

That dirt from my flower beds.

But tomorrow morning I am afraid

"Tar Baby" will again raise her head.