I walked among the garden rows
Last evening just at dusk,
Clinbing over melons
Both water-kind end musk;
I dodged the corn that hung its ears
High above my head,
And laughed to see the beets I’ve grown-
Like pumpkins, only red.
I trembled at the lettuce
From seed in thirty days,
And wondered at the zinnias
That set my world ablaze.
I paused to check the asters,
Big as dinner plates–
But the morning glories stopped me
(The kind called Pearly Gates)-
Saint Peter, in my mind ‘s eye, was
Regarding me with ire,
For fishing’s not the ONLY sport
That makes a man a liar!
by Ray Romine Sunday, March 26, 1950
