“I was a Weedy Garden, overgrown”
There comes a time in any gardener’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, his praises 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 some secret garden where no fear
could ever enter or find disarray.
Sometimes my weeds grow faster than my bloom
but from this patient man my metered croon.