There are gardens of love where you can hear the ringing sound of happiness, and cansee the mighty walnut tree shake one of his walnut covered branches so the squirrel can have dinner and can feel the love.
There are gardens of sadness where you can hear the pear tree grieving the loss of her son, where you can see the pear rotting on the ground, and can feel the pain.
There are also gardens of hate where you can hear the rose bush tearing apart the defenseless dandelion with her deadly thorns, where you can see the tall rose bush daring the little dandelion to dig one of her roots into the rose’s soft soil. Where you can feel the hate.
There are many gardens and everything contributes to each.
Mary Margaret McClaskey, age 12
What if I were a car and had
pennies for wheels and no brakes
and went straight and straight never
knowing when I’d reach home.
Ariel Stone, age 8
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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