WHAT IT IS TO BE LOVED
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.