The fall morning sparkled golden
O’er the dew-drenched meadowland,
Where the young boy and his grandpa walked
In silence, hand-in-hand.
From a nearby pine a meadowlark
Sang waking lullabies.
While mountains, shy and sleepy,
Hid their peaks in hazy skies.
The grandson held a watering pail
In a fist both young and thick.
The grandpa used a well-worn hoe
Like it was a waking stick.
They came upon a grassy glen
Where the view was vast and clear.
“Here?” a young voice questioned,
And his grandpa answered, “Here.”
With skill the grandpa used his hoe
To clear a little plot.
The boy put down the pail
In a shady, grassy spot.
Then he set about collecting
Special rocks and stones and then,
They laid them as the boarder
For their garden in the glen.
The boy retrieved the watering pail
And let its contents fall.
Out spilled flower bulbs of every size –
There were thirty-four in all.
The bulbs were soft and mossy.
They smelled like fresh-turned loam.
Tender sprouts of yellow-green
Had sprouted from each comb.
The grandpa picked the bulbs up
With reverence and pride,
As if he knew the life force
That was hidden deep inside.
He placed them each in shallow holes
He’d scooped out with his hand,
And covered them with blankets
Of loosened soil and sand.
Soon every bulb was tightly tucked
In this silk garden bed.
The grandpa smiled and nodded.
“Grow well,” was all he said.
The boy filled his pail with water from
A brook on the nearby hill.
And as he sprinkled it over the garden,
He echoed, “Please grow well.”
Then the grandpa and his grandson
Traced their steps back through the dale.
The grandpa with his well-worn hoe,
The boy with his watering pail.
Winter soon arrived wearing
A pristine cloak of snow.
“Not to worry,” said the grandpa,
“It will help the garden grow.”
The daylight hours grew shorter
As the winter slowly passed.
The sunlight seemed to vanish
In long shadows that it cast.
Finally, days began to warm again.
Daylight hours stretched erelong.
And springtime was proclaimed
In a meadowlark’s sweet song.
As the sun peeked o’er the mountain
Very early the next dawn,
The light sent shadows dancing
Across the misty, clovered lawn.
And there amid the shadows
In the early morning glow,
Was a young boy with a pail
And an old man with a hoe.
By the time they reached the grassy glen
The sky was powdery blue.
And the garden patch seemed magic
In its glistening veil of dew.
Tender shoots were peaking
From their silky soil quilt.
With silent, simple reverence,
The man and boy each knelt.
They gently tilled the garden soil,
Then smoothed it back in place,
Careful not to free the shoots
From the tender earth’s embrace.
They finished in the garden,
Then brushed their knees for dust,
And gave the plants some water
From the pail, red with rust.
“Grow well,” they said in unison
With purpose and with joy.
And they started on their journey
Hoe and pail, man and boy.
It became their special ritual,
The sojourn to the glen,
Where they tended to the garden
Then headed home again.
The day the first sprout flowered,
So delicate and bright,
The sky was barely high enough
To contain the boy’s delight.
The garden bloomed in vast bouquets
As the early spring passed by.
The grandson’s joy was multiplied
In his grandpa’s wistful eye.
When summer came it brought along
Humidity and heat.
In their stead the brilliant blooms
Faded in retreat.
There were only lonely leaves and stems
Where the flowers once had been.
The grandson’s eyes grew cloudy.
His grandpa touched is chin.
“Don’t be sad about the past,”
The grandpa’s voice was wisdom-rife.
“These are precious flowers
Just in a new season of life.”
“Life is a great circle
There is no end or start.
And nothing loved is ever lost
If it’s nurtured in your heart.”
For years the man and boy returned
To tend the garden lands.
Tilling, weeding, treasuring –
Love flowing through their hands.
And every year the garden grew
Grander than the year before.
From bulb to shoot to flower to plant
And back to bulb once more.
One frozen winter morning,
The grandpa stayed in bed.
When the grandson went to check on him,
“Grow well,” was all he said.
The grandpa’s voice was weak and small,
His face looked tired and drawn.
Before the meadowlark returned that spring
The grandpa had passed on.
The boy’s heart was sad and heavy
Sometimes he couldn’t catch his breath.
He missed his grandpa and his friend.
What sense was there in death?
When spring arrived one sunny morn
With a meadowlark in tow,
There stood a lonely shadow in the glen
With a pail and a hoe.
As the boy surveyed the garden
Shoots were glowing yellow-greens.
He couldn’t swallow and his eyes welled up
As he remembered what it means.
Life is a great circle
There is no end or start.
And nothing loved is ever lost
If it’s nurtured in your heart.
He knelt there by the garden.
The glen was hushed and still.
He heard his grandpa’s final words,
And he knew he had grown well.
His heart felt light and happier
As he donned a gardening glove.
These were more than flowers growing
They were buds of hope and love.
Fabletime 