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The Gardner
The Gardner
He pushes the tiller with the seventy-year-old strength of building houses in the swelter of summer. The eighty degrees of July are sweated off as would a rainforest lumberjack. The rows he piles with steel on soil are the womb of seeds planted by his gentle hand. Snap beans will rise on sticks to be harvested by my soft student’s fingers. Tomatoes flash under the sun like tiny Arcturuses but with juice instead of fire. At the dinner table, Grandpa says he could live off vegetables and forgo meat, while we dine on eggplant born of August winds and rain.
He pushes the tiller with the seventy-year-old strength of building houses in the swelter of summer. The eighty degrees of July are sweated off as would a rainforest lumberjack. The rows he piles with steel on soil are the womb of seeds planted by his gentle hand. Snap beans will rise on sticks to be harvested by my soft student’s fingers. Tomatoes flash under the sun like tiny Arcturuses but with juice instead of fire. At the dinner table, Grandpa says he could live off vegetables and forgo meat, while we dine on eggplant born of August winds and rain.
Published 29th Mar 2018
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1st Apr 2018 1:57pm
What a juicy write....
A true poet is the one that is inspired to write
with even the most simplest occasions of life
Love & respects
H
A true poet is the one that is inspired to write
with even the most simplest occasions of life
Love & respects
H
1st Apr 2018 5:57pm
H, my memories of Grandpa working in his garden are very precious to me. A true poet such as you appreciates such moments written in words. Thank you my sweet maiden for touching my memory with your delicate words. ;-)
Love and hugs,
John
Love and hugs,
John
