The Old Man & his Garden

Traversing the street,
peevish and sad,
imprisoned and bound,
by rules, fear, and masks,
I’m lost in a myriad
of disheartening and
fretful thoughts.
Right now my mind
can do nothing but ask,
“When will the world
wake from this viral
curse named COVID?”

I pass by a fence
of cold metal bars,
barricading an old man
maskless and oblivious
to the lunacy beyond.
He pores over his plants
as he has, I expect,
for eons or more,
loving nature with his
loving nature, lost
in his rapture with life,
sure that as all madness
has in his long life,
this too shall pass.
His tranquility is
mute but palpable,
dissolving the bars,
permeating the street,
converging with me.
I pause to watch him,
he looks up and smiles
for just a second, or,
was it forever?
It is enough.

I continue to home
and through my gate,
shucking my mask
of COVID malcontent.
Wasting no time,
I dash forthwith to
my small garden sweet
with bloom perfume
and hummingbird whirr,
resolved to cultivate
my own loving nature
by loving nature.

Thank you, wise man.

200813

Photos courtesy Ismaili Fjori and Gustavo Fring, Pexels

The Old Man & his Garden © Susan L Hart 2020

Subscribe2