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Grandma’s ‘garden’ – gnomeless – because that’s not her ‘thing’
but still the petite emplacement mixes peonies, pansies and pert little granite pixies;
a small courtyard that captures the love of gardening passed down from her father;
a plot that makes use of limited space and draws the rays of the sun, much as her
beloved clematis entices the enamoured bees, that fly in with the gait
of drunken sailors circling ashore for their sentried ship.
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But this place isn’t for me – the garden that is – the house and occupants yes,
for they bewitch with a brew of an olde worldliness and kindliness and kinship;
no, the postage stamp of a paved patch doesn’t pass muster as a pitch, real or
imagined – so it’s only purpose for me, in those restful moments that lure
grandparents to the rocking chair for the shuteye that they insist never happens –
is to afford me – with it’s florid confines – the deft discipline of keepy-ups….