Mashed by a thumb, a seed
Slept in its world
Of dark and damp.
‘Til its tiny crooked green head
Forced through black quietness
To sunshine.


Each pink dawn the gardener sprinkled and fed,
Though it seems so slow to grow
Though he knows
By nature’s decree
It must if not
Plagued.


Impatient, the gardener
Leaves his tiny charge,
Goes away
Lets it help-less lay
To groan and strain
Alone.


Time or none rides by
The gardener sighs
And jaded, casts his eye
On his babe once tended
With hope
Then despaired.


Now with colors glorious,
The once nothing child
Waves him, tops him,
And bristles his silver hair,
“I remember you” its breeze speaks,
You are the one
Who first cared.



© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


 

 

 




 



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