On daily constitutionals, we pass the house of Barbara.
Eighty-nine-year-old neighbor.
Living alone, tending an eye-catching garden.
Full of impatiens, zinnias, begonias.
She, the gardener, seated in a chair.
Bent over trowel, digging.
Organizing bushes, flowers to beautify the neighborhood.
Seeing her, we approached.
Listened to her describe her finished deck.
Six railing boxes, a palm tree, hibiscus plant.
But, then she moaned, I’m having trouble walking.
Whereupon, Bob noticed one of her begonias fallen awry.
Roots out of the soil.
Lying on its stem.
So, he offered to re-plant it.
Taking her trowel.
Righting it.
Covering the roots.
Her gratitude, enormous,
waves repeating in the sea.
There she sat upon her throne,
sowing visual poetry.
Lynn Benjamin
May 4, 2024
