The Gardener
Never knew for sure why
you did not like me.
Not really sure why you disliked me,
if you did.
All I know is that I lived two houses
from you for two years
and you never acknowledged
my good morning greeting
or afternoon “hi!”
And that frown, acid-burp sour.
Your kids smiled at me
and your wife said hello.
When I moved, your house was still
on my early-morning walk route.
I don’t think I saw you
for the next four decades.
What I did see each morning
was a magical garden.
The plot was no bigger than 12 by 12.
Every season there were
lush vegetables growing.
Onions, peppers and tomatoes
were State Fair exhibit quality and size.
The irrigation drip system was ingenious.
The ground was always
moist and never flooded.
I read of your death and wondered
why you had frowned at me.
Now I pass your house
and the plot grows monster weeds
from the rich soil you developed.
I stand looking at the weed patch and
wonder at the mystery of you.
Did that wonderful garden
bring smiles to your face?
Had I found you tending
your garden, could we
have had a gardener’s conversation?
For as you know, gardeners are allies
against the many plagues.
Insects, drought, varmints and hunger
all challenge us.
Together as friends we respond
with labor, chemicals and faith.
The world would be
a happy, peaceful place
if left to gardeners.
So I am left standing before
your neglected garden plot
and wondering if we could have been friends
if you knew I, too, was a gardener.
Doug Minnis
July 2010