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.
Lovely treasures left in the air
I left early to enjoy the wet, night air
it rained here tonight-what a joy
it's been many months without water
soaking the ground or filling the air.
Many little gems of joy
the Lair poets post for all to soak up
grateful we are the Lair does not dry up
her many wells are still untapped
a hidden ground swell reserve
our poets save time for us in words.
What a perfect response, Hope and Glory!