My father's garden

I think the poem that most spoke to me this time was my fathers garden. Not only did it feel simpler and cleaner among all the other flowery language but it also reminded me of my grandfather. Being told by my father of trips to the junk yard to shift through broken fan belts and old mattress springs it made it very easy to see his fathers hands looking though the metal. Looking for something to make, something to fix, something to toy with. As crazy as it sounds I think I identify with it so much because I can remember the lawn mower that had fishing line holding things together and would only start for him and I feel like that is usually lost in our generation. We are a generation of consumers, it is always cheaper to replace something than it is to fix things so we lose that. We lose what the author is talking about homemade toys, and hours spent tinkering and exploring.