A tray of nasturtiums, a little pink hoe,
The widest of smiles, almost ready to go!
She grabbed tiny gloves, in red boots, she was clad,
And three-year-old May went to garden with Dad.
Both daughter and Pop. In the dirt. On their knees.
Teased by a squirrel and mischievous breeze,
They spent most an hour in the bright springtime sun,
Mom could tell by their glee, they were having such fun!
Soon the squeak of the latch and a “Mom!” at the door,
And the sound as her gloves and small boots hit the floor,
Then the tiptoe of sweet, round and little pink feet,
‘Twas her small daughter trying to be so discrete.
She slipped up to Mom, and then peered all around,
“Mama!” she whispered, with hardly a sound,
“I was out helping Dad and watched all that he did!
“Dad buried the flowers. But I know where they‘re hid!”
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin,
With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?
Now post our poems for you to see.
And when you’ve read what we have brought,
Come back next week, we'll strain our brain,
And we three will discuss the rain!
