Dean Wood Poet Quatrain

Garden Tree

I didn’t plant that garden tree
But thinking, I just let it be
I knew I should have cut it out
But felt within to let it sprout

And so, as seasons came and went
I pruned this tree, its bole I bent
Around the gable of my shed
But left the limbs above my head 

The years passed by and I grew old
I hated heat and shunned the cold
My garden work became a chore
As summer days my patience wore

But resting underneath that tree
Allowed me time to watch and see
The beauty of my garden wrought
And all the neighbored friends it brought

A bunny comes to taste my beets
While shaded so, I rest my feet
A bumble-bee’s contralto thrum;
A promise of much more to come

Badgers, robins, the house finch red 
All come with hopes of being fed
And I, too tired to wield my hoe,
Am glad I let that elm tree grow.

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