Neither John nor I excel at gardening. This is in spite of the lineage of tillers in both our families. My grandmother had a rose garden with child sized paths. I loved to skip through them when we came for tea and sandwiches. My grandfather developed a heritage variety, perhaps inspired by his own last name which was Rose. He even went so far as to father a dozen children. He was after all a storyteller by trade. 

John's mother had an extensive plot which went a long way toward feeding their family. She went on to preserve the beans and applesauce in big mason jars. I joined in on the saucing one October and went home with a couple quarts. 

But even with the sporadic efforts to promote flowers and vegetables on our land over the years, given a choice on a Sunday afternoon we do not often get our hands dirty. 

Last spring I came upon a clipper that had unfortunately been forgotten in the grass all winter. It's usefulness expired with the layer of rust. I thought of the song John wrote about weapons gone soft. 

"They shall beat their swords into plowshares and make pruning hooks from their spears."

A friend mentioned the idea of burying the hatchet with the handle sticking out. Just in case you changed your mind about needing to cut someone down to size. What is it that keeps us stuck in expired arguments? The cucumbers and sunflowers that sprout cheerfully from the soil last a short while, then return back to the earth. Why would we want to prop up dead circumstances and pretend that poky words uttered twenty years ago still have relevance? 

Especially when there are so many fresh ones worth enjoying.