The Glad Gardener

Abandoning the Empty Rooms Old nests are torn loose from their anchors carefully, a knife eased between the wasp mud and its base. Small branches, cut in retrieving hornet nests, are nice for museum, science fair, and children who like collecting messy shedding homes. We can't bum empty rooms like old bird nests. Germs must be killed, odors eliminated, every trace of life removed. Empty, houses are collectibles. —Lillie D. Chaffin Lillie D. Chaffin Wild Honey Canaan seekers would not have had cause to complain. Summer is gathered here, sealed in tiered hexagons, dark ripe of locust dew, white of close set poplars, ambered when sun and bees agreed. At spring's bright urging, they left aseptic hive and clovered field to play the game bees must play once; surging queenward, they balled the fast warming air, reeled once, then dropped. We found their water hole one Sunday walk and planned hot winter pancakes. Another, colder day caught the hum of contentment. Suddenly, at tree-break, we lick the fingered gall of their choice and lightfoot home, fingers twined; we understand. —Lillie D. Chaffin The Glad Gardener When morning comes, I rise Up like a crocus Bright and frost free. Earth that slept beneath My feet wakes in day lilies Greening, blossoming. A one man crusade, I plant strawberries and Asparagus for the future. Like a clump of honeysuckle, I am filled with art And with music. My address is green, My hands are in the earth Planting, growing, harvesting. I leam from crickets Each autumn to sing Of last rituals. —Lillie D. Chaffin 17 ...