It Is Just, A Small Thing Poem by James McLain

The little wooden horse you gave me, when I
came home from hospital.
I watch you through the window, in your smock, planting
a new garden.
It is hot I know, I never tire watching you do some thing
simple like drinking from a glass that was once dark blue now bleached from the sun, into some thing even more Unusual.
You hang the white smock over the small wooden fence, the
dear will come when you leave.