The wind doth blow, the rain doth sweep, relieving dry and hot.
Campaign signs, laying down blown away, I like that quite a lot.
The storm doth show, with a mighty blow, Nature cleans her own front yard.
Yesterday's leaves, dead weak limbs, felled by winds so hard.
My garden says, that's OK, though I've lost leaves and shoots,
Onions and garlic, carrots and beets, are growing new long roots.
Me and Belle, no season has rest, we're planning next Springs' work,
Reading catalogues, ordering seeds, we need a new garden fork.
While we plan, recliner laid back, Mimi thinks we're both asleep.
But I doth plan, and Belle doth dream, of squirrels chased up a tree.
Aromas waft, from Mimi's kitchen, a rich stew is getting hot,
Turnips stewing, sweet taters baking, natural beef in the pot.
A gardeners work, is mostly done, until Winter ends at last,
But Mimi has, only brief respite, twixt cleanup and next repast.
Bare ground is bad, so I doth grow, collards and kale alike,
My garden grows, hardy winter crops, no break in the cycle of life.
So I praise Him, who made it all, though winds cut like a knife.
Since after all, that's His way, of renewal by bringing new life.
-- Carl Wayne Hardeman