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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #571918
a young girl's relationship with the gardener
When I was but a small girl I watched
the gardener out behind our house
tearing up the sod, sifting the dark soil,
raking and smoothing and making rows
and lovingly patting the small plants into
their beds.
He covered them with blankets of mulch and watered and fed them,
made sure that they thrived and grew.
Sometimes he let me help, taught me
how to care for small tender things.
At the end of each golden summer day,
my father carried me to bed
over his shoulder, laughing
and dumped me on the cool sheets.
I begged him to play calypso records
so I could dream of tropical gardens.
“Dad,” I would ask, “do you love the
flowers as much as you love me?”
And the gardener would smile and say
“You are my flower”.
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