I call him a horticulturalist

because he mows the lawn 

and waters his weeds

because he loves to read in his garden.

And I'll laugh at every joke he tells, 

consider all his thoughts 

because I think he knows what others don't, 

because I love his height and his hands,

So each time he speaks I listen

but I never understand --

I'd prefer it if he touched me

or plucked me a rose from his garden.

I imagine falling asleep in his armchair,

dreaming of a pebble in a stream,

loving him old while I am young,

planting a tree which outlives us.

Except, a man of his wisdom 

should know better than to love a child

who wants to know 

but thinks she knows 

who might not ever know.