gardens

Only landscapes, he said. No portraits.

The local train hot and slow on Thanksgiving Day - Pelham, he said.

Years ago there were no men amongst the flowers, he said.

Too macho, he said, to know that each of us is a blade of grass.

My eldest son collects gongs, he said.

There was no father prouder,

this father who brings green into local schools,

who knows that boys need plants too,

and that things are not as they once were, because the city has changed, of course it has.

My other son has traveled like you, he said.

A teacher, too, he said.

The world, he said.

Divorced, he said.

Good terms, he said.

The gardens remain -

I see him studying Chinese philosophy, becoming a father, loving his wife, being left;

in public gardens holding two little boys, one in each hand, he is patience;

he lists names of species - sunflower rose gardenia tulip iris chamomile.

Can you smell that, he said.

Yes, I said. It's like pine and dust in the hottest part of summer, cedar, too, maybe lavender.

Did I do the right thing, I said. Can you tell me - will I be happy will they be happy will we all be okay.

No portraits, he said.