The past is only a spade depth away. As I dig new gardens small treasures are unearthed. A green glass marble, a shard of pottery once a lady’s wash bowl. Pieces of willow pattern china in blues and greens, rusted bolts, nails, chain link, old tools, telling the stories of lives in the landscape. When did the blacksmithing stop, who owned the fine china? Maybe the old overgrown cemetery nearby will hold some clue. Now unkempt and uncared for in a farmer’s field, haven for wild flowers nodding their greeting to the morning sun. A blanket for those at rest….

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