He never asked about it once.
As a daddy I want the right to choose what my son will be interested in, to be the guiding hand in his choices. Whatever the reason is, they were digging for their survival. He will give me the minimal amount of his attention to allow me to take the photos, begin the process, gather enough material for a blog.
Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. The sixth stanza focused about his grandfather who was a great digger just like his father.
He looked unimpressed. Appearing in one of his first collections Death of a Naturalist inthe poem divulges into a depiction of a picturesque contrast between the poet and his forefathers and enacts the act of delving itself. I loved the reveal: pushing the fork or my hands in, unearthing garden magic, taking about as much as we can eat for the meal and no more.
It feels good to do the digging. My son retreated a few steps. He stood miserably at the side of the grow bags while I tried to rouse some enthusiasm.