My Father's Garden

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
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Submitted: May 06, 2012

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Submitted: May 06, 2012

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My father loves his garden,

I can tell as I view  him viewing it.

Sprawling in the late afternoon sun beneath his gaze.

He loves each blade of the grass,

each fragile petal on each tender flower,

every twist and crook in the maze of branches.

He tenderly lies his leathered fingers against the skin of a magnolia,

a spot of sun in the darkening afternoon,

his rough hands so gentle on the velvet petal.

He loves his garden for a reason so pure and true;

he loves it because he can look at the magnolias,

the bleeding hearts, the azaleas,

the millions of flowers he has tended, and beholds in a moment,

as day fades into night, and the air cools.

He loves it because his rough hands made these beautiful things,

they made them come to life in his home.

He took dirt, and seedlings, and made them grow,

and made them thrive.

He had made an ugly world beautiful,

and he had done it himself.

I love the garden, if not for what it has done for me,

then for what it has done for my father.


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