Good Gardener Poem by James McLain

However the wood through choice matures.
However it must grow.
Rose when it is small,
dancing around in the nude.
The girl turns out to be his wedded, wife.
We can do worse than by our short seasons.
And gentle is the hand that tends the bush.
Green leaves that never turn brown.
Turning the world, the sun will continue.
To speak and communicate is to know reason.
Her loveliness it exists, and it is lovely.
For is it not for the gardener, to trust,
and maintain thought of us.