Iron bunnies arc over wildflowers scattered randomly a few months back by Mother's hand full of seeds, letting her chickens decide what was picked and pecked, what survived, thrived. Flowering bushes and potted plants nestle amongst garden ornaments she loved: a windmill, water-spouting frogs, a birdbath, rocks from her travels out West, as well as winding rows full of vegetables. She liked to weed and mulch, but didn't over-trim or shape her garden; she liked the natural look, a place where chipmunk holes were welcome, where birds and butterflies found safe haven.
From a collection of hats, I select a blue-brimmed floppy from a peg, numerous garden implements neatly lined in a row below, idyl. I slip my hands into a pair of her gloves, put one to my cheek, comforted. I gather a few mementos, look forward to dirty fingernails, tired knees, and a sun-flushed farmer's-tan, Mother's iron bunnies cavorting above me.
This is linked with "Girlie on the Edge - Six Sentence Stories" - "Flush" is the word of the week. I suppose this is more of a reflection than a story - I'm used to writing poetry so this is kind of a mash-up of a story and a poem, maybe. But I'll post it and try and write a true story next time.
I like a garden where birds and butterflies can find safe haven. Nice use of those iron bunnies to tie the piece together.
This is a story, she finds joy in following her mother's path.
Both your prose and artwork are delightful. I really enjoyed your alliteration, your heart-warming remembrance of mom, and those bright, fun colors.
A perfect garden!
It must be a wonderful comforting feeling having your mother's gloves to put on. My mom liked her garden natural, too.
Our mothers had little idiosyncrasies that we can remember them by. Your mother liked the garden all prettied up, I can read that in from the beginning. Some wildlife also. We had a mother rabbit in our backyard this morning who was playing with her baby. One would hunker down and then the chase began, round and round a lot. Nobody won, the mother went off to eat some grass and the baby meditated. I think the mother was teaching.
Thank you for peeking in on me. And thank you for your not knowing what the song was, "Sidewalk Leveler". I left this note at the bottom to help others with the same question on their minds,
"Note: The "Leverer" song was a clever but monotonous way this person's company attracts attention to its TV advertisement. Uneven sidewalks around here are the responsibility of the property owner to even up to prevent tripping by pedestrians. Mostly one section will rise or sink out of proportion to the adjacent piece."
I had thought that maybe this was covered enough by the three lines,
" . . . Like (was in reference to Twain's ditty mentioned preceding, to this one on TV) TV's blaring song,
"Sidewalk leveler, sidewalk leveler, . ." remains.
_ _ _ _ _
You can delete this second comment after you read it. I think it will help other readers having this "Note".
Thanks again, Jim H
May your gardening always refresh you!
It's kind of nice to think of the link between generations and the garden. It feels like a wild sort of heirloom.
engaging from the get-go? (check)
Sounds like a Six to me, yo
Welcome to Sixville
(watch for that Spira guy, he'll be all, 'Hey, we always enjoy new participants... did anyone mention the Six Sentence Café & Bistro? Well, you didn't hear it from me but...) lol
I would call it a prose poem, and also a story. At any rate, I loved reading it!
That last line leaves a lingering feeling...
I describe this as a gorgeous stream of consciousness work that resonated so incredibly deeply in my heart. When I see small yellow butterflies, I know my Mother is close by. Thanks for the gift of your words today.
Looks like you have everything you need, including a perfect morning to enjoy the garden. I might just join you!
And hey, Stream of Consciousness (SOC) is always welcome for SSS!
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