Withering in gardens left dry. I’m still soaked from their old chokes. Oh, what a mess I’ve made now. Oh, what a mess of things I’ve made. It’s such a shame; all that dirt couldn’t grow. I put the blame all on the shine and less the soil.We must wilt away if we wish to someday grow, but I’ve wilted and waned over and over. The soil is as far as I, as I can go.