Garden Antics

a lighthearted Cronefire caper

I went out to weed the garden,
thinking I was in control,
but the mint had staged a coup again—
it’s clearly on patrol.

The basil’s making snide remarks,
the sage just rolls her eyes,
the thyme’s gone missing (yet again),
and parsley’s spreading lies.

The rosemary’s a drama queen,
she scolds me every day—
“You never prune me evenly!”
I sigh and back away.

The lavender’s been gossiping,
the chamomile’s asleep,
the dandelions formed a cult
and now they pray to sheep.

By noon I’d lost all dignity,
my trowel was in despair,
the compost laughed—“You’ll never win!”—
I flung my gloves in air.

So I brewed a cup of calming tea,
sat down among the mess,
and whispered, “Fine, you win, my loves.
Do as you please, I guess.”

Now every bloom grows wild and strange,
and though it looks a fright,
there’s magic in the mayhem here—
and somehow, it feels right.

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Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.