Childhood In A Garden
Poem By Dr. Charles A Stone
One day I'd whirl through the garden,
fingers splayed in sunny rays
above newborn buds singing.
Next day, I'd stand statue-still,
untied shoelaces spreading
like rhizomes around my feet
while tornadoes of sand slipped
through a clenched fist spinning.
On other days, near birthdays
and holidays, I'd sit in the shade,
lining up pleases and thank-yous
in perfect rows wishing.
Or, I'd be a hummingbird
with ruby throat and quick tongue
darting over flowers pollinating
pretending to understand
the secret language of birds and bees.
If I could not go into the garden
because of rain or behavior so bad
it would reduce a mother to weeping,
I'd stay indoors pondering the mystery
of weeds, the promise of flowers.
I'd get through the hours of confinement
with the help of petal-brushed memories
of the garden, then and even now, as I gaze
out the office window dreaming.