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Gardening, of course, involves quite a lot of digging. At times we even dig whole new beds, and that's quite an undertaking.

Recently, I've been digging quite a lot of holes for bulbs, and as I plant them I fantasize about how beautifully they will bloom next spring. Even digging becomes fun in the fall when one is creating a flower display to dream about all winter.

I must confess that nowadays I prefer to dig small rather than large holes, so I try to buy small plants in small pots. They have the added advantage of being less expensive as well as only needing a smaller hole than a larger plant, even if they usually take longer to mature.

I just read a poem about digging by Edward Thomas and here it is:

Today I think

Only with scents-scents dead leaves yield,

And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,

And the square mustard field;

Odors that rise

When the spade wounds the root of a tree,

Rose, currant, raspberry or goutweed,

Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,

Flowing from where a bonfire burns

The dead, the waste, the dangerous,

And all to sweetness turns,

It is enough

To smell, to crumble the dark earth,

While the robin sings over again

Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

Reference: Garden Poems (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets), John Hollander, 1996.

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