A Summer Snapshot

by Brendan Martin

The burned red skin my father wore
was a source of speculation,
as to how often it occurred before,
and if caused by recreation.

It was.

This green-fingered man, as straight as his edges,
dug his garden with love, a spade, and a fork.
He sweated for hours, digging and turning,
breaking and raking, sowing or reaping
from each clod that he touched.

When, eventually tired, he ate, and he drank;
he rested and smoked a well-earned cigarette;

The sun took his energy and offered him thirst.

His efforts looked clean, and tidy, and ordered.
Drills, side by side with cabbages or potatoes,
and occasionally, flowers.

his hands were so soft; as they caressed my mother,
just like his garden, with an unending love;
each bearing fruit, and wonderful excitement
on many occasions as the years rambled by.

Now there are weeds, with strong roots and big leaves,
and barely a berry from his days at toil;
and the burned red skin, on my father each summer,
seems like a time, we were one with the soil.