Yard Speak

         As I recall, in the early days of my youth, I recognized that in my intuitive wardrobe of a mind, having children was not in the best intentions of my being, so I was along the many forks in the roads, determined to replace those feelings to

procreate with something just as intrinsic to the natures of my soul.  
       Along the way, planted in my brain, which still remains, are the sounds of silence, broadcasting patterns and textures, as they are per say, found only in the preludes to horticultural stigmas.  I then was to realize my potential of raising geometric traditions from the surrounding landscapes from the interior patents of my often swirling and bombastic repertoire of stylistic botanical memories.  
                                     As it were, in relation to the rearing of children, these compilations spoke for themselves, no matter the detours and cajoling I obfuscated from my secular selves, finding a way to speak back to me, the satisfaction I had delivered to them, in ways that only the concept of actions speak louder than words, can justify.  I can in all honesty, say from moment to moment that these  gestures illuminate themselves as the continuous brush strokes of the landscape as it evolves from one generational thought to the next.
                                    This then is the parent Steven, ever grateful to have had the pleasure of watching and contemplating the growth of my offspring, even though the outcomes are never displaying foreshadowing, or giving any clues to the permutations one finds along the way, Child