Here is a poem I wrote... Poetry and The Garden The daughter watched her mother garden as she grew, But she never thought it important as what she wanted to do. Playing and talking to friends was her game. A social light, beauty queenshe could not be tamed. She was a great thinker, as she learned in school. She mastered poetry and played by its rule. Feelings and thoughts rushed through her head, But when she talked to her mother the conversation went dead. Her mother was of the silent type. Born and raised in England, it was her birthright. Feelings stayed closed inside the mind. Her mother wished her daughter would be of the same kind. Her mother tried to teach her to tend to the rose. To touch, to feel and smell with her nose. The beauty of the garden was her motherÂs paper. The emotion poured out of her hands like an anchor. Once covered with dirt, her mother smiled. She could carry out her day being calm and mild. Words about feelings never came easy. Her mother found dirt and pants to be pleasing. The daughter could never understand her mother. As her pen flowed with one thought or another. And the mother could never understand her daughter. But soon, she learned she should not bother. The daughter would do as she wanted. Through her teens she wrote in notebook, hearted. She had dreams of going off to different places. And when college time came, she left England with no traces. She wrote home as she studied in the west. Told her mother of classes and her marks on every test. She joined a poetry group to share thoughts she held dear. Something she never got from her mother for years. The daughter soon met the twin of her heart, A man who was open and honest and loved art. Together they painted and wrote about life. They talked through their happiness and their strife. Finally the daughter had found one of her own. Soon with her man, a family was sown. A daughter was the center for all of their care. They taught her to feel her feelings and share. As the child grew she became more inwards. Her lips stayed sealed as she watched the birds. If it was not the birds then it was the flowers she sought. One day the child found a shovel and pot. The childÂs world became the flowers and the earth. She felt like this had been her calling since birth. Every petal, leaf and bug seemed like gold. She knew she would garden until her days became old. Well the childÂs mother was worried and worn. ÂSheÂs turning out like your mother, her head forewarned. ÂTalk to me child, what goes on in your world? On her heels, the child twirled. ÂOh mother please, I donÂt want to talk. ÂBut child, your feelings should not be blocked. You should talk to me about boys and friends. You donÂt want to be lonely in the end. The childÂs eyes rolled as she went out in the yard. The childÂs mother thought she would have to play one more card. A trip back to England seemed the right thing to do. A talk with her own mother would hopefully brew. With a hug and a kiss the old mother greeted. Happy to see her daughter back home and pleaded. ÂSit down dear daughter and have some tea. The mother walked into the kitchen with glee. The daughter looked around her old home. Seeing cut roses on the table, she felt curiously warm. Things were the same and nothing had changed. This house still felt stuffy and she still felt caged. As she watched her mother put on the kettle, Her fingertips slowly traced the edge of a rose petal. She sucked in some air and bit her lip, She emptied her lungs to state the reason for her trip. ÂMother my daughter wonÂt listen to me. She spends all her time tending flowers and trees. IÂm scared for her life and her schoolwork as well. She spends all day with the plants and has nothing to tell. She wonÂt talk to me about feelings and such. I donÂt want her using the tending of plants as a crutch. I wish to know that she is fine. I want her to find a boy she thinks is divine. Instead of planting I want to hear her giggle. With friends and schoolmates, not staring at a thistle. She is missing school dances and things you see. Oh, mother what to do, she wonÂt listen to me. The mother slowly smiled and closed her eyes. ÂDaughter I want you to come with me outside. ÂOh mother please, I have no time for your garden. My daughter is in trouble, her heart seems to harden! ÂCome now dear, donÂt get upset. I want to teach you something if you let. Silently they walked into the yard. The mother carefully checked every plant card. ÂAh, here it is, this is what I wanted to show. Mint is my favorite plantÂsee how it grows? You canÂt tell from the outside that much is going on, But this plant is busy from dawn to dawn. ItÂs constantly growing and spreading its roots. Just when you think itÂs done, up pops new shoots. As this plant does, so does your child. Inside she is feeling, alive and wild. Sometimes you are not meant to see this. The best you can do is hug and kiss. Let her go her own way as I did you. Then you will know her heart is true. As you came to be when it was your time. She will in turn have her chance to shine. She will love you for letting her be. Just as IÂm sure of your love for me. The daughterÂs tears fell down her cheek. She for once, did not need to speak. She learned there was more to feeling then words. And for the first time she felt a quietness that was all hers. She got down to the earth and on her knees With a smile meant for her mother, started pulling the weeds. The mother got down on her knees as well. She felt overjoyed and her heart swelled. ÂI have never been good at speaking, But that never meant I was unfeeling. I have loved you forever and will love you still. As long as you live your life as you will. ItÂs a lesson I had to learn when you were young. I would worry about you until my hands were well wrung. In the end I found our differences great, But I cannot interfere with fate. You are as you are and I expect no less. So go back to your daughter and offer her the best. Your love for her is stronger then speech. The greatest thing she can learn is the love you will teach.Â

Everyone has their own opinion of brands. For the most part, like equipment will work and last similarly. Key is best possible installation which is getting harder to find. Few bother to size right, jobs are rushed to make a buck... The 14HPX is a low end unit. The XP14 is much nicer as is the C4A4. Nothing wrong with Comfortmaker, owned by Carrier, same factories, different design, same Copeland scroll compressor as they all use and it is a good warranty.

friedag--is one of the following Mary Oliver poems the "climbing" one you had in mind? Of the handful of poems by Oliver that I know, these are the only ones that feature climbing--but there is no ladder, unless you want to count the tree as a ladder. Happiness In afternoon I watched the she-bear; she was looking For the secret bin of sweetness-- honey, that the bees store in the trees' soft caves. Black block of gloom, she climbed down tree after tree and shuffled on through the woods. And then she found it! The honey-house deep as heartwood, and dipped into it among the swarming bees--honey and comb she lipped and tongued and scooped out in her black nails, until maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe a little drunk, and sticky down the rugs of her arms, and began to hum and sway. I saw her let go of the branches, I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle into the leaves, and her thick arms, as though she would fly-- an enormous bee all sweetness and wings-- down into the meadows, the perfection of honeysuckle and roses and clover-- to float and sleep in the sheer nets swaying from flower to flower day after shining day. That final image always cracks me up--the big shaggy bear, drunk on honey, fantasizing about being a tiny little bee flying around in ectasy as she gathers the pollen for making honey all day long! Don't we sometimes long to be the exact opposite of what we really are--in this case, a bear's version of Cinderella at the ball, perhaps. LOL The Honey Tree And so at last I climbed the honey tree, ate the bodies of bees that could not get out of my way, ate the dark hair of the leaves, the rippling bark, the heartwood. Such frenzy! But joy does that, I'm told, in the beginning. Later, maybe, I'll come here only sometimes and with a middling hunger. But now I climb like a snake, I clamber like a bear to the nuzzling place, to the light salvaged by the thighs of bees and racked up in the body of the tree. Oh, anyone can see how I love myself at last! how I love the world! climbing by day or night in the wind, in the leaves, kneeling at the secret rip, the cords of my body stretching and singing in the heaven of appetite May we all discover the "secret bin of sweetness" --joy and love--and find within ourselves a "heaven of appetite" for the honey of life! I like to pair these two poems (don't know if Oliver intended that or not)--the second poem showing what she learned from the bear (from nature) about living life to the fullest ("gathering rosebuds" while we may, as our favorite 17th century poet might put it?) as she figuratively climbs the tree of sweetness that the bear literally climbed. If neither is the right poem, they are still a couple of my favorite contemporary nature poems. Maybe this is why I'm fond of bears in nature poems. Kate

I saw the child one summers day If you click on the book's cover, you can see the contents grelobe Here is a link that might be useful: The Poems of Emily Bronte - from google books