The Gardener
He spent the golden years in his
garden growing vegetables like weeds.
With a Midas-like touch, instead of
gold, everything turned green.
Spring, summer and autumn, something
about growing brought him great joy.
Perhaps he saw in the garden's changing
seasons a semblance of life others did not:
Childhood as spring when like young
shoots he first grew,
Work and family as summer when his
crop began to yield,
Retirement as autumn when the fruits
of his labour were consumed.
And winter... well winter was his time
to rest and reflect on his crop.
He died in the winter of his being,
content with his harvest.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
