A Day in the Yard, Original Poetry by Thomas Martin Saturday


Summer Garden with white wrought iron furniture table and chairs, lawn grass and house, wishing well in yard, flowers, picket fence for beautiful backyard living

Summer Garden with white wrought iron furniture table and chairs, lawn grass and house, wishing well in yard, flowers, picket fence for beautiful backyard living

It was a day in the yard
so like other days
long remembered
fondly, lovingly,
occupied with mowing the lawn
pulling weeds,
chores.

It was the place
where father could be found
parceling out tasks,
providing sage advice on life.

Where setbacks,
the loss of a job
back in the day
a beating by some other kids,
were merely
he said,
“good experience.”

For father,
knowing the stars
all about trees
engaging in common labor,
were the means
to express
his feelings about love.

He could not say
“I love you,”
this reserved only for mom
amid passionate whispers in the dark,
the last whisper,
“Oh Char.”

The yard, with its endless work
was where boys
were to become men,
with all it meant
in the bonding,
father to son.

Yet on this day
it was I who tasked myself,
not having to be told
I simply went of my own accord
transforming
weed-filled flower beds
into neat
trimmed and edged places
fit for a botanical garden.

My bride to be was inside,
enjoying the company of my parents
I caught sight of mother and my girl
at a window,
their smiles
their eyes
as if to say
we know what you’re playing at boy!

I was finished
or perhaps the yard had finished me,
tools were cleaned and put away.

Then an astonishing sight,
my father
two cold beers in hand
beckoning me to sit
two chairs fit
for two men,
just to be.

Two weeks later
he was gone,
a senseless accident
depriving me of his presence,
wisdom
new-found respect
understanding,
though love, perfect love,
lastly achieved.

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