The work of the hands was obsolete they say,
Trying to cure the weed-ridden turf,
But they forgot about my father today,
His knees crack with effort in the dirt,
Grass heads tickle against forgiving sun-rays.

The grass is untamed,
No plow,
No hoe can disallow,
No mechanical maim,
Can prevent,
The life which my father seeks to augment.

The roots too strong to snatch
With wrinkled hands skilled in nurturing plant patches
The beating brow of anxiety among the azaleas,
Among the vacations of flora and fauna to Australia,
Among the roses he brought to my mother,
Among the hyacinths his camera took for a friend of another.

This was his work.
Sent unable for him to desert,
The branches and brackets which he cannot avoid,
Welcome him to turn thorns,
Into moments our family could adorn.