In contemplation of my leisurely situation,

My daily recreation,

Tasks crossed off, the elimination

Of what appears to be work to the rest of the nation.

Threw ‘way my bizness skirt

Got a SPF 45 sunblock shirt

Now I’m workin’ in the breeze and diggin’ dirt

Till my bones get numb and my muscles hurt.

Is this fun or is this toil,

This playin’ with seeds and weeds and soil,

Sniffin’ manure without recoil,

Huntin’ down pests like Conan Doyle?

Then August comes an’ it’s time to harvest,

Can it, freeze it, dry it an’ all the rest,

Obsessed more than blessed would be my guess,

Jungle-hot kitchen makin’ me depressed.

So am I out to pasture, washed up, retired;

Or recreating as desired?

And how in hell did it transpire

That a wizard became a gardener, I inquire.