“I was a weedy garden, overgrown”
There comes a time in any garden’s scope
when magic may appear; so unexplained
and such a cultivator for my slope;
I called him “Mr. Snow”, though not his name.
Reminded me of tune from Carousel.
I kept my notebook with his accolades.
While humming them, the rhythm taught me well
and so my sonnets grew though in the shade.
I kept this teacher’s approbation near;
his love for my fine Haiku tucked away
into a secret garden where no fear
could ever enter or find disarray.
Sometimes my weeds grow faster than my blooms
But from his patience came my metered tune.