A Photograph, only a month old.
It is pasted above his desk.
In it he may be seen in the middle distance.
He is happy, deadheading zinnias.
There are also hollyhocks, not yet eight feet tall.
The bees cannot be seen.
The camera does not resolve them.
Behind him his house waits, needing work.
His gutters will spill rain.
Gaps between the siding boards will widen.
He is not concerned.
His fingers amble among the blossoms.
They separate the living from the dying.
Here he is a god for zinnias.
He will remember himself thus.
He will not mind the rain.