In the dawn’s soft glow, the garden wakes, A canvas of green in morning’s embrace. Yet, amidst the blooms and the leafy sprawl, A weary gardener hears the call.
The hose is coiled, a serpent’s nest, But the bucket’s weight has put me to the test. From row to row, and bed to bed, I trudge with a bucket overhead.
Oh, the watering can, so modest and small, Its metal sheen a gleaming thrall. Yet, with every lift and every pour, My patience wanes, my muscles sore.
The soil is thirsty, cracks and pleads, A parched earth thirsting for liquid deeds. But each drip, each drop, each tiny stream, Feels like a punishment, not a dream.
The light beats down with a fiery glare, As I move like a penitent in the open air. Sweat on my brow, and dirt on my hands, I battle the elements, these arid lands.
The plants, they reach with hopeful eyes, And I, their weary, faithful guide. Yet the task is endless, the chore divine, In the hand-watered blues, my spirits pine.
Oh, for a hose, a wand, a spray, To ease the burden of this endless day. Until then, I’ll slog, I’ll sweat, I’ll bend, In this hand-watered tale that never seems to end.