A Gardener To Greens
The land you grow on is His,
As water is, sunlight is;
And I'm but a care keeper
And claim to be no owner,
I raise crops blest by His bliss…
He says, heart gone to each plant,
Each makes him feel so pleasant
He strokes them with tender hands,
Two long-lost souls as old friends—
A friendship that feels no lent!
Wishes well, fruits and flowers,
Admires beauty of bowers,
To fresh buds, fragrant blossom,
With praise ever so handsome,
And keen advice he showers:
A season there’s to mature,
Heed to haste nor waste, be sure—
Enemies that kill childhood,
Cherish, long as lasts and good,
It helps old age to endure,
Nor wither before your time
Ere your growth reaches its prime,
He walks on to feel young fruits:
Never miss to thank your roots,
Growth’s fine, but roots only rhyme.
Seeds and leaves as do all else,
Each its success story tells,
Ungrateful O never be,
Be a proud offspring of tree,
Bear in mind till ring loud bells.
And whilst gardener's wards nodded,
A pregnant breeze, yon, wafted:
His nature is to nurture,
Not to heed, Nature’s nature,
Rare if advice is heeded.
__________________________________
Musings | 03.03.16 |
Poet’s Notes: With loving hands and heart a gardener nurtures a garden. He treats greens as living beings, as they really are, and tends to counsel them with well-meaning words. But even from my not so sound knowledge of gardening I know: not to heed humans is Nature’s nature, a sentiment that reflects in the last two lines of this poem.
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