Horace was a gardener

Horace was a gardener
planting with flesh, hair, sweat, blood
botanical miracles for over fifty years,
tending the lawns of society’s
princes and paupers,
creating palaces of orchid, tulip, mum, and daisy,
of ivy and chamomile,
painting flecks of green in the ghettos
one blade at a time.

Horace was an artist
obsessed with his canvas of earth,
sculpting life itself daily
to the pleasure of the world,
giving credence to the affluent,
diversion to the meek,
the inspiration of so many hotel watercolors
and the imagination of weak-minded men.

Horace was a vagabond
tracing mindless paths,
wanderings of the bemused,
scattering the gathered buds of youth
with bitter spits,
memories of scorn and
slaps to the face,
of lovers’ venom,
knowing thorns would never cut so deep.

Horace died on Thursday
tending to roses outside the municipal court,
he laid himself down
among the children of his weary hands,
let the charcoal blackness circle his paramour
drawing him to sleep,
finding peace that he may be buried
like so many seeds by his hand,
becoming green life in the soil.