I see him, calm, unhurried. planting seeds
Of marigolds, calendulas and pinks.
With care he drops each miracle, and thinks
Of tender greening shoots; and later, heeds
With rarest pleasure each one’s fussy needs.
He straightens from hand weeding. His back kinks
Are vanished quickly, for his mind’s eye links
Imposing beauty to the toil and weeds.
Still later, when some visitor exclaims
At all the loveliness his work-play reaps;
At his green thumb and growing secrets here,
He smilingly and earnestly disclaims
Such help. His flowers nod. Their secret keeps;
They thrive in his contented atmosphere.
by Ray Romine Thursday, November 22, 1951
