My friend the gardener who manages <br />to combine romantic or ex-romantic <br />with realist and fine poet and <br />loving gardener and teacher <br />and much else, harmoniously, <br /> <br />points out to me that the pink geranium <br />swinging gently in its hanging basket <br />in the late September sun, with <br />an effusive burst of flowering <br />which it alternates with exhausted, <br />barely green recovery and dry stalk, <br /> <br />puts on this display simply (simply!) <br />to attract insects to accidentally <br />(accidentally!) aid it to <br />propagate its species.. <br /> <br />so I, who am nothing to it <br />except perhaps a passing Samaritan <br />who gives it water in a thirsty summer <br />and, perhaps irrelevantly, perhaps <br />from deeper cause, <br />received just now a shout <br />of pure pinkness from it so that <br />my senses thrilled, passed the message uncommented <br />to what seemed like my purest being, <br /> <br />am indeed attracted, my nature to that of it, <br />animal or human I’ll leave others to decide, <br />and from that vaguest of cosmic relevance <br />intend to see it through the winter <br />to the birth of Spring or spring of birth <br />with what - my gardener friend - <br />may well be love<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0013-pink-without-think/
