Mr. Groen maintained a modest but pleasant yard.
Saturdays in season he cut the grass with a push
mower, pruned roses, fertilized, spread compost.
Martha Groen watered the beds full of crimson
geraniums, purple peonies, tulips, daisies, and
such that fancied her seasonal gardening moods.
But back to back dry nasty winters followed by
suns so hot the weatherman warned of drought,
and the city curtailed yard watering with fines.
Weeds bolted like bad thoughts coming from
nowhere but filling the mind with oil and gas.
Mites appeared, worms, mildews, the antithesis
of a long forgotten paradisaical anthesis.
They still sat out, but they let the yard go.
A Cutting Edge Paradox
The Coming of the Toads 
And the same from me Joe. To you and yours.
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Thanks, Philippa! Looking forward to solstice. Not that we can see the sun here. And to you and yours, peaceful happiness light, as the first of the nine prayers goes. And a bit of nog!
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And so, our predetermined future emerged.
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But when was it determined and by whom? During and by the dinos? And how do we know we are not actually going backwards? Detoured minds. We’ll go no more arowing.
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It appears some hardships are self inflicted. Whilst natural disasters may have confounded the plans of Mr.and Ms.Groen, learned reactions and resultant steps taken thereafter, followed a conducted tour.
Always interesting Joe.
Hope you are well and enjoy Christmas. Thanks for the wonderful posts.B
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That’s it. Thx B. Warm Christmas to you!
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