Checked the garden boxes yesterday. Nothing dead, which is good, and no newly sprouted seeds, which, while disappointing, it not a surprise. Apparently Miracle Gro doesn’t mean overnight. With my giant watering can sprinkling across the boxes, I sang the “Grow” song:
To the tune of Row Your Boat, only with a more disco beat:
Grow, grow, grow young seeds,
While I make it rain.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
This sure is a pain.
It’s ok, just like my dog, the plants only understand tone, not the words I’m saying.