A field, the poor mans flower garden. Is this not so?

The field, a poor mans flower garden when in


the month of July. Without having to cast any


seed, I can enjoy the blossom of God’s gift to


this unassuming yet grateful Adam. I may walk


that which is free for me to do so. To skim with


the palms of my hands the tall grasses, uncut by


scythe for generations. My tread is as thistledown,


therefore leaving no scars to show where I have been.


My walk is predictable and my eyes most keen for


I know not what lies in secret places; though past


July’s have told me where I may happen upon a


patch of Lady’s Fingers and Thumbs, or Purple Tufted


Vetch hidden deep between the Fine Bent, Couch,


Broom, Silky Bent and Quaking grasses.





A poor mans garden indeed though in my humble


view; I would say it is a wise mans garden, for there


is no preparation beforehand, the seasons are my tools.


The wind my seed caster, the rains my watering can


and the snows and frosts my spade. The sun in all of her


morning glory is my field’s alarm clock,

A field, the poor mans flower garden. Is this not so?
What a delight to walk with you through the poor man's garden. Your imagery is so emphatic, so beautifully drawn that I was profoundly moved. Here in California there are Lupine and Poppies and Wild Mustard adorning the hills, still intensely green from the rains. I truly cherish your writing. It is an inspiration. Thank you.
Reply:The Earth is our flower garden. Unfortunately, we are turning much of it into barren land. Your imagery, as usual, is intense and your ideas profound.
Reply:Sometimes I have that kind of garden where I live, Robert. When I drive by long fallow fields where the weeds have taken over some say the golden rod and Queen Anne's lace are weeds but I think they are pretty. There is a field that has been fallow for some fifty years or so near where I live and the wild flowers have taken over. Purple, white and blue dot it's skin in the summer time. It's really pretty.