This Man


Planting the pansies
He is library quiet
The curve of his back
Bent in supplication
To the delicate petals
And tender leaves.

Rough man hands
are gentle tools
that cradle infant roots
and sprinkle soil
like fairy dust.

The pansies
Chubby-cheeked
Flush with color
Are lifted away from
The crowded box.

Are they fearful now?
Will their tiny souls wilt?
How will he comfort them?

Their small perfect beds
Are prepared and ready.
He covers them with soil
A drink before bed then
Tucks them in.

In the morning
The same hands hang
Below the suit jacket
Clutching keys a phone
A newspaper

I watch from the window
Busy day, must hurry
Late for work.
His long, quick strides.

As he walks to the car
I see him stop.
His back bends
Once again to touch
The soulful face
Of one flower.

I love this man.