Substrate...  dirt, soil,
  the stuff from which life springs.
    enfertiled by worms 'n' bugs,
      stirred, fluffed, tilthed and tended.
I am your substrate
  and you are mine . . .
    else 'tis likely we never
      would share this realm, together.
And... what enfertilements do I bring
  to serve your growth... or you, mine?
    How much encrustedments must I chip away
      searching for the real, moisty fecundities.
Somebody has been pruning my growth
  with shoulds and shalls, do's and don'ts
     even my roots are nipped  and chopped
        with the sins of my grandfathers.
No wonder this garden is so subject
  to damping off, stunting, yellowing
    and weird shaped growths of bud and twig.
      How many hairy tendrils have I left?
'Tis merely amazing, what with cold
  and cloudy skies, wind and salt breeze,
    trimming, pruning and religious teachings
      that any growth can happen at all.
Ahhh... but Punxatawney Phil promised
  a return of sun and balmy climes...
    at least for a time... time enough to play
      and fatten... for the next long cold spell.
                                         r.anderson 10Mar2011