Gardening still at Ninety two,
and still going strong,
prefering to wear out, not rust, that
surely can't be wrong.
His life still has purpose,
even tho' eyes are dim,
his garden's still important to him,
tho' his vines he cannot trim.
Visiting with neighbours,
are some of lifes true joys,
sharing Gods bounty across the fence,
our faith in men doth restore.
rim 8/29/05
Good evening Miss Feather . . .I really enjoyed your story and it has inspired this poem in return.
Goodnight everyone . . .see you tomorrow.