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.