Memorial to a wife

I’ve had the garden tidied up,
As she would have me do.
This little pal who couldn’t stay
To see the season through.
The flowers were her dearest friends,
The garden was her own,
I’ve watched her work, but never knew
The things that she had grown.
Her, catalogues keep coming, and
Her garden magazine;
I run across the queerest names,
And study what they mean,
I read them all, from end to end,
And when the spring is here,
I’ll have a garden just like hers,
As though my wife were near.
Albert H. Pedrick

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  1. And then there was the neighbor who said this of her ~

    Before she had her floor swept or her dishes done,
    any day you’d find her a-sunning in the sun….
    She dug in her garden with a shovel and a spoon,
    she weeded her Lazy Lettuce by the light of the moon.
    She walked up the walk like a woman in a dream,
    she forgot she borrowed butter and paid you back in cream.
    Her lawn looked like a meadow, and if she mowed the place,
    she left the clover standing and the Queen Ann’s Lace.
    Apologies to Edna St. Vincent Millay.

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