THE GARDENER

No day is long enough -
he shovels and digs from
sunup to sundown. The wild
blooms he finds in vacant
lots - to nurture and to
plant their exotic aroma.
Some so odd they seem lifelike
as they bleed red and cry as
babies when ill. All day they
demand his practised art -
they gloat when appeased . . . and
scream when angry. Oh! all is
forgiven their bad manners -
as the blooms are strikingly
beautiful in dazzling wild reds,
oranged flame and striped fuscia;
their faces in peculiar shapes.
He digs and plants and nurtures
til extinguished . . . . they demand his
attention, his job is never done!
He has no time to sleep, for if he
does; he will surely die! They will
see to that . . .

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